


Anima Aquatica

by Yoonaya



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoonaya/pseuds/Yoonaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his son starts bringing home a new friend, Kyungsoo doesn't expect to become infatuated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anima Aquatica

 

 

 

 

Truthfully, Sehun had been a mistake. Kyungsoo had been eighteen, young and inexperienced, and Soonhyun, with her strict catholic upbringing, hadn’t had the slightest idea. All hell had broken loose for the both of them: angry parents, angry teachers. Friends were lost and dreams were broken. Kyungsoo’s parents had even offered for Soonhyun to go to America, where it could happen privately and safely, but the girl had insisted it was God’s plan. So she kept the baby. Then, two years later, she got into a bath and slit her wrists. Luckily, Kyungsoo had just been discharged from the army. Med school was dropped and instead of scalpels and studies he filled his days with shitty diapers and screeching cries.

 

It is this story of his youth that had given Kyungsoo his ‘street cred’ in the world of writing when he had debuted with his first novel aged twenty-six. The tragic tale was brought up at every radio show he visited, every TV recording he attended. The sad background violins were put on, and everybody would fall silent as Kyungsoo revisited his saga of woes. Sometimes a tear or two would escape one of the other guests, the camera panning in to capture the poor sod’s emotions on a life they hadn’t even led. ‘Kyungsoo Do, a man with a history’ the title of his GQ article had read, next to a black-and-white photograph of said Kyungsoo with a very grave expression on his face. The issue sold more than a million copies.

 

All this sentimentalist exaggeration aside, Kyungsoo did have a hard time when he first started living with Sehun in their cramped Brooklyn apartment. Money was scarce, work was hard and the days were long. He remembers one time when he had dragged Sehun along to a job interview and told the boy to wait outside, stay here and don’t talk to any strangers. When he left room an hour later Sehun had, of course, fled. Kyungsoo had walked around the neighborhood for three hours, calling the boy’s name and wearing down his ratty $10 sneakers, before finding the boy back at the bus stop, lying curled up beneath one of the charcoal benches. They had missed the line at the food bank because of this, making Sehun’s stomach empty, which in turn made Sehun cry all the way home. The bus would shake up and down, its thin windows rattling with every speeding bump, and Kyungsoo would pretend not to feel the other passenger’s glares as he had to drag Sehun out of his seat under the screaming of ‘I want to stay here!’. He had hit the young boy with his belt until red welts had appeared on the palms of his hands. Sehun had sniffed and promised to be a good boy. In the end, Kyungsoo hadn’t gotten the job. This is the story he doesn’t tell on television.

 

Now, we must not take from this that Kyungsoo did not love Sehun. Though always a cynical man, even Kyungsoo could not resists the way Sehun had looked when he had first born, with skin so soft and white, his eyes tightly shut and his little arms and legs wriggling about in the white cotton of his cradle. His heart had grown tender at the excited bustle of sounds escaping that pink mouth, gibberish with no meaning whatsoever, but oh did it sound so sweet to his ears. He would listen to it all day, if he could. People always said that having a child was a miracle. Kyungsoo still thought that was bullshit (in his opinion, it was a biological function that people used in order to survive – a remnant of our old past as a different species) but he did think it beat going to the movies, and Kyungsoo fucking loved going to the movies.

 

Once success had hit, life had become easier for Sehun and him. All of a sudden, there was no need to worry about food and gas and rent and who will take care of Sehun if I fall ill? Bills were paid on time, meals became plenty, and Sehun was able to buy his outfits at the same store all his classmates got their flashy sneakers and ragged jeans. Not better, but the same. And that is all a teenager wants; to be the same as everyone else in the world. To not be the weirdo, or even worse, the odd one out. Of course, everyone feels like this and in such feeling that way makes one the same as everyone else, but thoughts don’t mean shit in this world. They can’t be seen. Sehun’s Nike vests and Vans shoes could be seen, admired, and touched.

 

There had been a very happy period for the two of them. During the day, Sehun attended a nice private school in the good part of town, where buildings are more marble than anything else and windows get made to be sparkly clean every day so that everyone may look in and say, gosh, what a beautiful school that is! I wish I went there. Kyungsoo got to write at his little oaken desk in the middle of his study in their newly-bought penthouse (upper-east-side, if you must know). The best parts of his books often got cut out, the ideas that excited him rejected, but at least money was steady and worries were scarce. For that price he could easily put his pride aside, write the mind-numbing drizzle the public desired. After all, he had done worse for far less. In the evenings him and Sehun often went to sporting events together, good old father and son bonding, or they would go for dinner at restaurants with valets and businessmen loudly talking about million-dollar-deals on their cellphones, but only ever when Sehun asked.

 

Now, Sehun had reached the age of sixteen, nearly the age Kyungsoo had been when Sehun had first been born. He has grown tall, far taller than his father, and red and yellow splotches of acne have been strung out over his face like a cobweb.  Sehun doesn’t like to talk a lot these days, but Kyungsoo thinks that’s fine. He remembers what being sixteen was like. A blur of being misunderstood and confused, facial hair coming through to irritate and taunt him, angry rock music blasted at ungodly volumes. Mostly though, Kyungsoo’s teenage years consisted of lots and lots of jerking off.

 

He’s a good parent. With patience and understanding, Kyungsoo is confident he’ll be able to coach Sehun through these years.

 

*

 

Like so often, Kyungsoo hadn’t been listening the first couple of times Sehun had talked about the subject. He had heard his son talk, of course, but his mind had been busy with the stress his recent deadline gave him, and how the work he was going to have to do that day would leave him with no time left to work on his secret project. Sehun was saying something about a boy who transferred in the middle of the school year and how Sehun thought he was going to be a dweeb but he was actually pretty ‘chill’, all the while chewing open-mouthed on his cereal. Kyungsoo couldn’t really recall the details. Lately, he didn’t bother to listen to his son much. This hadn’t proved to be a problem: most of things Sehun spoke about these days were quite silly anyways. Teenage angst and superficial worries and such. This, however, had gradually seemed more important than Kyungsoo had thought it would be. Mentions of this boy, Jongin, became more frequent. Questions like ‘can Jongin come over?’ and ‘can Jongin have dinner with us tomorrow?’ and sometimes even ‘can Jongin sleep here tonight?’ were often repeated at breakfast and dinner alike. If he didn’t know any better, Kyungsoo might have thought Sehun to be rather enamoured with this ‘Jongin’. The browser history on Sehun’s iPad told Kyungsoo that his son’s predilections lay otherwise. He had met Jongin himself on various occasions, short and brief meetings before Sehun would come to snatch Jongin away after a quick hello and how are you. The boy was a little shorter than Sehun, his skin a little more tan and his uniform fitted him a little tighter, but he was just like any of the other pupils at Sehun’s school: upper middle-class brats with dreams in their heads and opportunities in their wallets.

 

The first time Kyungsoo ever paid any real notice to Jongin was on a Saturday night in March.

 

Kyungsoo and his laptop are seated at the kitchen table. When he tilts his head upwards, he can read the ungodly time on small red numbers on the microwave. 3:12, they seem to screech at him, mocking. It’s 3:12 and your story isn’t finished. Three more hours and Joonmyun will be at the phone, his panic audible through feigned-nonchalance, ‘’Hey Kyungsoo, do you have the manuscript yet?’’. Kyungsoo still has to get his main lead back home, write a touching scene where she opens up to her family and explain why her ex was killed. Three hours. He doesn’t even know where to start. Sighing, he stands up and walks over to the fridge, opening one side to see whether Sehun has left any ice-cream for him. He needs to calm his mind. His hand rummages through the plastic boxes of kimchi and leftover pasta, feeling the empty space besides it. A mug of whisky, then. Standing on his tiptoes, Kyungsoo reaches up towards the white cabinet, clawing at the empty space above. Even with his length extended like this, Kyungsoo still finds himself too short to properly get a hold on the mug that stands at the back of the cabinet, as if teasing him for his disability. Cursing under his breath from the frustration of being so fucking short, he nearly yelps when an arm stretches upwards and thin fingers clutch the mug away from by his side. Looming over him with a stupid grin at the corner of his mouth and the white mug clutched in his hands is Kim Jongin, Sehun’s recent bff. The boy chuckles as he slowly lowers the mug, low enough for Kyungsoo to grasp the white ceramic himself.

 

‘’Thank you.’’ Kyungsoo offers, his voice loud in the silence of the empty kitchen. Jongin shrugs, his shoulders moving in that way only teenage boys seem to be able to move their shoulders, with a certain conviction of not caring about anything at all. Whatever, their shoulders seem to say.

 

Jongin is still in his school uniform, though now deprived of his navy jacket and tie. So much for keeping up the façade of trying to sleep, Kyungsoo supposes. He doesn’t know what Sehun and he are getting up to in his son’s smelly little room: playing video games, making ridiculous bets or simply watching porn, Kyungsoo doesn’t really want to know. He gestures towards the cabinets with his head.

 

‘’The kitchen is rather more Sehun’s size than mine,’’ he jokes, ‘’but well, I suppose everything in this country is!’’

 

Kyungsoo had expected an awkward, stifled laugh that meant ‘why are you talking to me, you old man?’ or perhaps just a cold look. Instead, Jongin smiles, a genuine smile that makes little dimples appear by the corner of his lips. It isn’t quite a laugh but the sentiment feels much the same. Kyungsoo feels relieved. He smiles back easily.

 

‘’You seem to get on well, sir. Despite your height.’’ Comes the reply, all polite, private-school words. Kyungsoo shoots another quick smile at him before walking back to the kitchen table and sitting himself down behind his laptop, his mind already back with Jenny and her family troubles that still need unravelling. With his back upright and his fingertips at the keyboard, Kyungsoo is ready to delve into the world of the Langers once again, but a pair of eyes fixed upon his form hinder his concentration. He inclines his head towards the boy.

 

‘’Did you come to ask me something, Jongin? The bathroom is just down the hall, first door.’’ Kyungsoo offers, his short arm stretching with the explanation. At this, the young boy softly chuckles. He shakes his head, face down and hands on his hips, the cotton of his white shirt shifting underneath his movements.

 

‘’No sir, I wasn’t looking for the bathroom. Sehun asked me to get us some beers.’’ The dark-haired boy explains. Then, catching his lower lip with is teeth, he decides to delve in a little deeper. One hand grabbing onto the edge of the tabletop, he tentatively takes a step towards the table.

 

‘’I just wondered, sir. If I may ask – why are you still up so late?’’ The tanned boy asks.

 

Kyungsoo let his hands slide away from the keyboard of his laptop, blinking up at the boy. Jongin is looking directly at him now, dark brown eyes and even darker hair catching the greyish glow of the refrigerator’s light, the door still hanging open. It’s the first time he has really looked at him, and Kyungsoo notices now what a good looking boy Jongin is. A finely cut jaw, skin the colour of rich chocolate and dark, slightly droopy eyes that surely any girl would like to lovingly gaze into. Sehun was never bullied at school, but it would be a lie to say he seemed to be one of the popular kids. His awkward manner and slight insecurities didn’t allow for that to happen. This boy, however: there was no doubt. Kyungsoo could easily imagine him in his navy jacket and white shirt, slouching at the back of the class, sending flirty winks to the prettiest girl (the queen bee, the prom queen). Unless the world had changed in those sixteen years it took for Sehun to become a senior at high school, there was something a little off about a boy like that spending so much time by Sehun’s side. He stored the thought away to the back of his mind.

 

‘’Your father works as a procurator, doesn’t he?’’ Kyungsoo demands, satisfied with remembering that bit of information from a conversation he’d had with Sehun not two days ago. Jongin’s lips purse a little before he nods. Kyungsoo leans forward on his elbows, the white light of the laptop catching his face, and tangles his fingers together.

 

‘’Then you must have seen your father work this late.’’ He concludes. Jongin rubs the back of his head.

 

‘’Well, yes – that’s true. Only… I was wondering if you were working on a book. Do forgive me if I am intruding. I wouldn’t want to keep you off your work.’’ The young boy says.

 

The way Jongin grabs one of the chairs and sits himself down means he doesn’t care at all if he is intruding, much less if he’s keeping Kyungsoo off his work. It’s almost rude, the way he decides to barge in like this, yet Kyungsoo doesn’t want to tell the boy off. Part of it is the fact that he wants to be distracted from the impossible task in front of him (why did Jenny’s ex get killed? Oh God, who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?), part of it is curiosity. He doesn’t quite know what this is. Boys like Jongin don’t read books, and they certainly don’t take the time to talk to old men like him. A fan, perhaps? Kyungsoo highly doubts it.

 

‘’I was. But don’t worry, you’re not keeping me off my work.’’ Kyungsoo assures him, then sighs. He stretches his arms out, high and up into the air, like a cat. One arm slung over the armrest of the chair and the other on his thigh, he looks back at his laptop, the words seemingly staring back at him. ‘’I’m trying to finish this story, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how.’’

 

‘’You don’t plan ahead?’’ Jongin asks, a little bit of actual surprise echoing through his voice. His face is still a mask of nonchalance, full lips into a straight line, dark eyes looking back at Kyungsoo. He sits close to the edge of the chair, almost lying down, his legs spread wide. It’s a dominant gesture, Kyungsoo knows; he’s often used it in his books. All Kyungsoo sees is the definition in his thighs.

 

‘’A bit. Some details are difficult, so I leave those. Then when I’m finishing a story I give myself a headache, like now.’’ He explains.

 

‘’Well? What’s the story about?’’ The young boy presses, smiling. The way his back is slightly arched towards Kyungsoo reveals his curiosity, even if his nonchalant way of sitting belies this. Kyungsoo knows the type. Smart, good-looking, spontaneous. Jongin must think himself to be more mature than people his age, more intelligent than others at his school. He must already have a future planned out in his mind. Harvard Law School, perhaps? Standing in a courtroom in brand-new Armani, fighting battles for the weak and making hard cash from it, too. That is the thing Kyungsoo detests most about these bourgeoisie babies: all of them find themselves to be so damn special. The chosen one, if you will, when really you could take the life story of any random member of the Congress and it would reflect that of all the snotty little sods in Sehun’s class. Silver spoons and all that. Kyungsoo doesn’t really know what Jongin wants from him. Connections, maybe. They do start lobbying so young these days.

 

‘’It’s too much to go through right now.’’ Kyungsoo tells him. It’s a clear statement. He averts his gaze to his laptop, hands falling back onto the keyboard. Jongin has bored him already. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but it’s full of people like Jongin. So fucking dull.

 

For a couple of minutes, Jongin doesn’t move. His resolution is impressive, Kyungsoo supposes, but even the strong give in at some point. He isn’t awake to hear Jongin shuffling out of the kitchen door, and the next time he looks up there is light streaming in through the kitchen windows, sharp and harsh to his tired eyes, and his phone is buzzing by his ear. He manages to squeeze another two weeks out of Joonmyun, who Kyungsoo imagines is nearly going into cardiac arrest from the way he’s screaming at him through the phone, and the book is released under much acclaim.

 

He doesn’t think about that night with Jongin until he gets a text message from an unknown number the day his book is released.

 

_I liked the book, sir._

Is all it says. Kyungsoo doesn’t know how Jongin managed to get a hold of his number. Other than Joonmyun, nobody has access to this phone, not even Sehun.

 

Maybe Jongin wasn’t such a dull boy after all.

 

It ignites something in his veins. He can almost hear the boy those words, his deep voice lingering on the ‘r’. Sir. It’s unexpected, and it makes him read the lines over and over like a mantra. The words in the message are clear, but the meaning is decidedly something else. With his heart beating in his chest and a tightness in his throat, Kyungsoo’s finger hovers over the reply button for a second or two, before it stops mid-air. That would be giving Jongin exactly what he wants. It’s too easy, that way. Let’s see how handsome Jongin copes with being ignored, he decides. If the boy comes to him, then perhaps Kyungsoo will play.

 

*

 

‘’We give you two years, Kyungsoo. That’s more than we give most of our authors and it’s more than we have ever given you before. Where do you see a problem? Because I don’t understand!’’ Joonmyun pleads. He’s sitting on the edge of his desk, arms crossed in front of his scrawny chest. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, which keep glancing at the clock whenever Joonmyun thinks Kyungsoo isn’t looking. No doubt he’s already running late for the next meeting, stressing about some fresh new author’s deadlines. If it were anyone else, Joonmyun would have dealt with this over the phone but they have history, Joonmyun and him. History that they can’t exactly share outside of this office, but it’s there nonetheless: it hangs in the air around them, pressing down like a weight. Kyungsoo can feel it through every move he makes. It’s the reason why Joonmyun is being so gentle right now.

 

‘’I just – Joonmyun. You know I’ve been dealing with some severe writer’s block.’’ Kyungsoo sighs, running a hand through his black hair. He crosses his legs and looks up to the older man with wide, pleading eyes. Joonmyun’s expression instantly softens. He untangles his arms and lets his hands rest on his knees.

 

‘’That’s why we’ve given you two years,’’ he insists, ‘’you know I want to give you more but David has my neck as it is! Two years, okay? Not two years and three months, Kyungsoo.’’

 

Kyungsoo lets out an irritated sigh lets his head fall to the side, averting Joonmyun’s regretful gaze. When he looks out of the window on his left, there is Manhattan, all spread out in front of him. Large skyscrapers rising into the air, looming over the people crawling underneath, like a forest watching over its deer. There is promise in those buildings; in the way the entrance hall is crafted with marble and gold and the way the sparkling clear windows shine in the light of the sun on a hot day. Disappointingly, once you get past the entrance, one finds that all of those buildings are the same. Small, cramped offices in which suited people work away each day from nine to five, typing on their keyboards and shouting through their phones. There is no promise in that imagine, just cold reality. It’s the one Kyungsoo has come to know. No doubt Joonmyun has, too.

 

‘’I want this one to mean something,’’ Kyungsoo admits, his face still cocked to the side, ‘’this time, the story has to be… I don’t know. I don’t want this one to end up on the Times’ bestseller list only to be forgotten after a couple of months. This novel has to be the one that people think of when they hear the name Kyungsoo Do.’’

 

‘’I can’t help you with that.’’ Joonmyun retorts. His small, dark eyes are looking at Kyungsoo apologetically. Biting on his lower lip, his gaze rakes down Kyungsoo’s body, then back at his face again. He opens his mouth to speak when all of a sudden the phone on the side of the desk starts ringing, startling a little jump out of the both of them. He shoots a glance at the display, then gestures towards Kyungsoo. The shorter man shrugs. Leaning backwards ever so slightly, Joonmyun shifts his body so that the phone sits snuggly between his ear and shoulder, a notepad and pen ready in his hands.

 

‘’Leopor Editors New York, this is Joonmyun Kim, can I help you? Ah – Mister Jameson… yes,’’ Here, he puts his writing tools down, places one hand over the speaker of the phone.

 

‘’I have to take this.’’ He says. It’s an apology, but Kyungsoo understands. He gets up from his chair, re-buttoning his jacket. He hesitates for a moment, then takes a step forward and shakes Joonmyun’s hand. The other man smiles at him, small lines appearing around the corner of his eyes. Something in Kyungsoo’s heart drops at the sight of that smile, and the memories that cloud around his mind from seeing it. He lets go of Joonmyun’s hand.

 

‘’The deadline, Kyungsoo. Two years!’’ Joonmyun reminds him. As he walks out of the door, Kyungsoo doesn’t look back.

 

*

 

Their next meeting is brief. Sehun is upstairs somewhere, no doubt putting more gel in his hair than five boys would need altogether, or changing his navy shirt into a dark-blue one for the third time that evening. The two of them are going out, Jongin and him, and they look the part. Jongin is clad in a white shirt with black pants, the fabric clinging to his skin in just the right ways. Kyungsoo remembers when he was their age, remembers the way his charcoal suit had been too wide in all the wrong places. Teenage boys fill up suits in that way; with elbows and shoulders that are too petite, the fabric sticking out in odd angles like a balloon. Jongin doesn’t look like that and the way his lips are curved into a confident grin shows he knows. The boy greets Kyungsoo instantly when the older man walks into the living room, a copy of The Times under his arm. Where Kyungsoo goes to sit down on the couch, Jongin remains standing. Kyungsoo bets he feels more powerful when he’s looming over him like that, using his height as an advantage. It makes him want to laugh.

 

‘’I saw you at Letterman last week. You were very funny, sir.’’ Jongin compliments, hands on his hips. His hair seems lighter today, though Kyungsoo can’t quite tell with the poor lighting in the room. Almost blonde. Like a California girl on the beach. The contrast makes his dark skin stand out more. Kyungsoo doesn’t really mind, but he does wonder what Jongin’s parents must think. He hopes Sehun isn’t getting any ideas. Jongin’s grin widens, and Kyungsoo realizes he must have been staring.

 

‘’You dyed your hair.’’ He notes. Admitting he has been staring takes Jongin’s power away. It should, in theory at least, yet the boy’s smirk remains in place. He runs a hand through his hair, the other keeping at his hip. As he does, Kyungsoo tries not to focus on the flash of skin between his trousers and shirt that is revealed by the gesture. He swallows, but the tightness of his throat remains.

 

‘’It was my sister’s idea. Do you like it?’’ He asks, lips languidly curving into a smile. His hair has become a mussed mess through his own doing, tangled around his hand.

 

‘’It suits you.’’ Kyungsoo says, and directs his eyes back down at the magazine in his lap. He reads the opening line for the fifth time in two minutes, trying to keep his focus on the words and not on the way Jongin shuffles around the room, rudely rummaging through the CD collection on his bookcase and poking at the fish tank by the windowsill.

 

There is a loud noise upstairs, something falling down to the floor with a thud. Sehun’s stomping footsteps on the floorboard overhead follow. Kyungsoo pretends not to hear, forcing himself to keep his eyes and mind on the article in front of him; some opinion piece on China and the failing propaganda of their communist party. It’s hard, especially when Jongin plops down in the chair facing of the couch, seemingly completely comfortable. The kid probably is, Kyungsoo remembers. Jongin makes it a point to look at everything but Kyungsoo, something which makes Kyungsoo’s blood run faster with irritation and another feeling he can’t name. Ten minutes later and Sehun’s bedroom door finally slams shut, the pounding on the stairs a sign that his son is finally ready getting dolled up.

 

‘’I’m glad you like my hair.’’ Jongin jokes cheekily, breaking the silence. ‘’Because I really did like your book, sir.’’

 

His lips are curved into a smile, but his eyes are not. Those dark brown orbs gaze at him, sharply. From the hall, Sehun shouts that they’re leaving. Jongin doesn’t say goodbye as he jumps out of the chair and walks into the darkness of the other room. Kyungsoo watches him leave. He waits until he hears the click of the front door and waits until he hears the engine of the car roaring away, the loud sound fading as their distance grows. Then he hurls the magazine onto the couch, China’s communist party be damned, and grabs his phone from the kitchen counter. Scrolling through the past couple of weeks, he finds the text message and hastily presses the reply button.

 

_If you were to write a story, how would you begin?_

He sits at the kitchen table, phone clutched in his hands, and waits. The reply comes not a minute later. Kyungsoo can so easily imagine Jongin, sitting in the car Kyungsoo bought for Sehun, at the passenger’s side. The way the corner of his lips would tilt upwards into that damned smirk, the grey light of his phone lighting up his tanned skin in the darkness of the cab. The way his fingers would swiftly move over the keypad.

 

_Why, exactly like this._

 

*

 

Kyungsoo recognizes him before he even turns around. It’s obvious it’s him in the way that he stands up straighter than the people around him, his height not making up for the lack of years between his colleagues. Kyungsoo recognizes the delicate curve of those broad shoulders. Mostly it’s the blonde hair, though.

 

‘’Jongin!’’ He greets, placing one hand on the boy’s shoulders. He has to reach upwards in order to do this – courtesy of his lack of height – and he immediately regrets the gesture. The boy swiftly turns around, all grace and youth, then bursts out in a smile as he recognizes the dark-haired man addressing him.

 

‘’Mister Do! What a surprise to see you here!’’ He exclaims. His friends, some of who seem a little star struck, some who seem a little irritated, are waved away with a quick comment Kyungsoo doesn’t quite catch. Then it’s just him and Jongin standing by the white-linen covered table. The dinner has yet to get started. First, it’s time for the standard kissing up and sucking off (in some cases – Kyungsoo has never dared to venture that far to get on in his career). Kyungsoo is glad for the glass in Jongin’s hands. It gives him something on the boy.

 

‘’And what’s a kid like you doing here, sitting at the adults’ table?’’ He orders. The smile Jongin gives him this time is more polite, more calculated. His droopy eyes don’t crinkle, but his full lips curve upwards ever so slightly. Kyungsoo wonders if Jongin is aware of the effect he has on people. There is a group of middle aged women standing by the stage, all sure to be at least the age of Jongin’s mother, giggling and pointing like school girls. Kyungsoo knows it’s not him they’re enchanted by.

 

‘’There are some people here I have to impress, sir. Ah – for my scholarship at Stanford, that is.’’ The young boy explains. He staggers a little as he talks, little steps back and forth. His speech comes out slightly slurred, tongue thick in his mouth. Kyungsoo wonders if the glass in his hand is one of many already, or if the boy is just a lightweight. The proximity of the two of them strikes him at this moment, how he could slightly move his hand and brush it over Jongin’s hip, write it off as an accident. The boy takes another sip of the clear liquid in his glass, Adam’s apple moving down as he the liquid slides down his throat, and Kyungsoo can feel his skin burning hot underneath white linen and black wool. He takes a step back.

 

‘’Am I one of those people?’’ He muses. It barks a breathy laugh out of the younger boy, who stumbles forward, closing the space Kyungsoo had just created between the two of them. Some of the wine sloshes onto the floor, runs down the side of Kyungsoo’s black trousers, but the older man doesn’t move. He feels pinned to the ground as Jongin looks down at him, one hand gripping Kyungsoo’s shoulder in order to keep upright. 

 

‘’I always want to impress you, sir.’’ The blonde admits. Kyungsoo can feel a shiver run through his body at the confession, a cold wave that rakes through his arms and legs, and barely suppresses the slight jump it startles out of his body. Placing his own hand over the one on his shoulder, he shoves Jongin off. It seems to take the boy by surprise, and in his drunken haze he nearly falls over, struggles to catch his feet just in time. His eyes are wide with bewilderment when he looks back down at Kyungsoo.

 

‘’Don’t stand so close to me. People are staring.’’ Kyungsoo orders. Jongin still edges forward.

 

‘’You’re a famous author, sir. Of course people are staring.’’

 

‘’That is not what this is about and you know it,’’ he warns. Jongin towers over him even with his back bent, but if he expects Kyungsoo to feel intimidated by some teenage drunk, he is mistaken. Lowering his voice, the dark-haired man takes one step forward. His eyes find Jongin’s, a delicious dark brown, just that shade lighter of his skin. If Kyungsoo isn’t careful, he’ll drown in those eyes. ‘’I don’t want people to get ideas, Jongin – least of all you. You’re skirting on dangerous ice here.’’

 

Finally, Jongin takes a step back. Kyungsoo doesn’t wait for him to reply. He doesn’t know what will happen if he does. Turning around instantly, he starts to walk away from the boy, towards the mass of people currently situated on and around the dance floor. His eye falls on David, his editor-in-chief, tall and lanky and currently clad in a suit much the same as Kyungsoo’s. He waves brightly when he recognizes him, and Kyungsoo waves back. In his chest Kyungsoo’s heart is still beating unbearably fast, unrest thrashing around in his veins. His cheeks are hot. He can almost feel Jongin’s gaze fixed on his retrieving figure as he walks to the dancefloor but when he looks back, the boy is gone. 

 

*

 

**Jongin, 0:55 AM, +42620958901**

_I got my scholarship, sir. Aren’t you proud?_

**Jongin, 0:56 AM, +42620958901**

_So many sponsors. It was quite incredible, sir._

**Jongin, 4:20 AM, +42620958901**

_I know you read these, sir. Don’t worry, I’m a patient boy._

**7:21 AM**

_I can’t imagine how you were able to do that._

**Jongin, 10:30 AM, +42620958901**

_I think you can._

**Jongin, 10:31 AM, +42620958901**

_I bet you have._

**10:35 AM**

_Would you tell me?_

**Jongin, 12:00 PM, +42620958901**

_When?_

**12:01 PM**

_I look forward to your next visit._

_*_

END OF PART ONE

 

*

Sunday mornings are always nice. As a rule, Kyungsoo always takes his Sunday off, even if his phone buzzes with thirteen texts from Joonmyun that all contain much too creative death threats. These mornings always start the same: a nice cappuccino for him, a nice coke for Sehun, and two Big Macs for the both of them. It’s an old habit that stuck, you see. This morning though, Kyungsoo is in exceptionally high spirits.

 

‘’Jongin! I’m sorry, did you want something? I can get the car in just a second.’’ Kyungsoo exclaims over his newspaper as Jongin shuffles through the kitchen door. Sehun immediately goes to sit opposite of the dark-haired man, paying no mind to his guest, chin-deep in ketchup and beef within a second. Jongin shakes his head, waving off the offer. He’s already eaten, he explains to Kyungsoo. The boy is more casually dressed for once: a black T-shirt and white shorts. It’s wonderfully middle class. Kyungsoo wonders if Jongin thought about him when he stood in front of his closet that morning, if he is aware of the fact that Kyungsoo can’t keep his eyes off those toned thighs. Kyungsoo thinks he is. He struggles to keep his expression even. A very nice morning, indeed.

 

‘’And to what do we owe this pleasant visit?’’ Kyungsoo asks, eyes down at his paper, as if he’s not at all distracted by the way Jongin’s hips move when he walks to the table.

 

‘’Sehun and I are going to test a new game that came out today.’’ Jongin answers, sliding into the seat next to Sehun, who by now has nearly finished devouring his heap of McCalories. Kyungsoo smiles in delight at the young boy.

 

‘’Are you? Well that’s very nice, Sehun. You don’t think your father could join? Or are you afraid you’d lose?’’

 

Sehun makes it a point to dramatically roll his eyes at the other boy, beef and salad visible in his mouth that hangs open as he chews away. Jongin doesn’t take his eyes off of Kyungsoo’s. There is darkness in his eyes and promise is the slight curve of his mouth. Kyungsoo can barely wait. Who knows what Jongin is capable of. He hopes he won’t disappoint. Before Sehun can catch on, he averts his gaze back to the sports section.

 

‘’Whatever, dad. Sure.’’ Sehun deadpans, his grave tone ensuring Kyungsoo knows he doesn’t find it funny. Here, Jongin jumps in. He leans forward on his elbows, a kind smile on his face and his eyes wide, batting his eyelashes like a girl.

 

‘’Actually, sir. I also had a favor to ask. You see – I was asked to write an article for our school’s newspaper as we are graduating. However… I haven’t the slightest idea where to begin. I hoped you might be able to help me – if you’re not busy, of course…’’

 

His voice fades at the end of his sentence, confidence fading as if Jongin really doesn’t know whether Kyungsoo is busy or not. He even catches his lower lip between in teeth in mock-innocence. Kyungsoo has to hide his grin behind his left hand as he turns the page on his paper. The sly little bastard.

 

‘’Of course! I’m always happy to help a friend of my son’s. You come by my office any time you like. Don’t feel afraid to barge in.’’ Kyungsoo urges, shooting smile his way. Jongin leans back into his chair, thanks the older man for his help. The short time it takes for Jongin to slip into his different roles takes Kyungsoo by surprise. It had taken him years to achieve such competence.

 

Sehun jumps out of his chair then, his patience apparently having worn thin some time ago, and dumps his empty glass and plate in the sink. Kyungsoo doesn’t bother to remind him about their rule. Without a word the taller boy drags Jongin upstairs, up to play the magical video game Sehun no doubt has spent all of his pocket money on. With the younger boy’s back safely to the kitchen, Jongin twirls around and blows a kiss at Kyungsoo as he’s leaving, before breaking out in a wide grin. This time, Kyungsoo doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

 

*

 

The door opens quietly, no real strength being used. Jongin was meant to be asking him for a favor, after all. His parents must have taught him, Kyungsoo thinks, to be polite like that. Always quiet: never too loud, too obnoxious. On second thought, maybe it was his nanny. It does seem more likely. When he glances at the digital clock on his monitor, Kyungsoo sees it’s already half past ten. He wonders whether Sehun is already asleep or if Jongin had used some excuse to slip out of the room.

 

‘’I was beginning to think you’d never show up.’’ Kyungsoo says as the door falls shut behind Jongin. Kyungsoo’s been sat in his leather desk chair facing the door, trying to write and failing to do so. The blonde smiles at him. It’s a lazy smile, all droopy eyes and languid curve of his full lips. Kyungsoo doesn’t know this role yet. It’s different. More sensual. He’s looking forward to Jongin’s performance.

 

An arm disappears behind the boy’s slight waist, and Kyungsoo hears the lock click in place. He raises an eyebrow, mouth going slightly agape. Oh.

 

Jongin’s gaze is challenging.

 

‘’Well?’’ The older man urges, ‘’Are you going to keep standing there?’’

 

‘’I truly was asked to write that article, sir.’’ Jongin begins, as he starts to walk towards Kyungsoo’s dark oaken desk, one slow step by slow step. The dark haired man lets his eyes rake down Jongin’s body that is so deliciously on display like this. His strong legs, thick thighs, broad shoulders, and those wonderfully plush lips. Kyungsoo has wonderful ideas of what to do with those. He leans further back into his chair, rests his hands on his stomach.

 

‘’And?’’ He drawls. Jongin lifts knees as he goes to sit on the edge of the desk, legs spread wide. He places his hands behind his body, propping himself up on his arms, and arrogantly cocks his chin up. His black shirt slides upwards ever so slightly, revealing just that inch of tanned flesh. It takes all of Kyungsoo’s self-control not to slide his chair forward and stroke every inch of bare skin that Jongin’s currently showing, and then some.

 

‘’My headmaster thought it was beautifully written.’’ The corner of Jongin’s mouth slides up even further. There’s a twinkle in his dark eyes. Kyungsoo can’t help but copying his expression: the adrenaline in his veins too strong. He places one hand on the blonde’s bare leg dangling over the desk. The skin there feels smooth, but Kyungsoo doubts Jongin has been shaving. He watches with glee as Jongin fights to retain his poker face when he begins sliding his hand up higher and higher, coming to rest just under the opening of the boy’s shorts.

 

‘’So tell me, Jongin,’’ Kyungsoo begins, ‘’I know you must realize that I’m not interested in you for your intellect. At least I hope you do.’’

 

To stress this point, he slides his hand further up Jongin’s thigh, so high that his hand barely fits beneath the white shorts. He smiles triumphantly as he feels a slight shiver going through the boy’s body, sees a quiver at the side of his mouth.

 

‘’But what’s in it for you?’’ he continues, ‘’I’ve been sat here, thinking about it. It can’t be the physical side, I thought. You’re too aware of your looks for that. No, no. Connections, then. A Stanford boy needs connections – it wasn’t a bad guess. But no. Your parents make sure you would suffice in that area. So what is this, then? Just an adventure?’’

 

When his other hand suddenly comes up to press by the inside of his right thigh, it startles a moan out of the boy. It’s obviously a mistake – for a fraction of a second, Jongin’s mask falls away, his mouth parting and the noise spilling out. When he regains his former expression, it isn’t quite as convincing. Kyungsoo lets his hand trail further, happy to discover that despite his disguise, Jongin is as easy to rile up as any teenage boy.

 

‘’Telling you wouldn’t be much fun, sir.’’ Jongin drawls, voice hitching when Kyungsoo palms his growing erection through his pants. His eyes are darker now, but this time they’re filled with lust. He blinks uneasily. Kyungsoo had not expected it to be quite this easy. Part of him is slightly disappointed, but part of him feels ever more enthralled.

 

‘’Have you done this before?’’ Kyungsoo asks, genuinely curious. He had thought Jongin to be quite the charmer by the way he seemed to know this game so well, but perhaps it had only ever stopped at the first kiss, the first nervous slide of a hand in some pretty girl’s hair, a curious fondle in the boy’s changing room. Jongin had seemed so in his skin when he first locked that door behind him, but his suit of armor is slowly falling apart. Kyungsoo thinks he might have to take it down a notch if he doesn’t want Jongin to come in his pants. When he presses a kiss to Jongin’s neck and starts to suck on the sensitive skin, all the boy can do is shake his head, little breaths he can’t suppress spilling out of his mouth.

 

‘’But you have been with women?’’ The older man continues, his hand trailing upwards again, the slight brush of his hands against Jongin’s nipples making the boy’s chest hitch upwards.

 

‘’Yes – yes sir.’’ He stutters. Kyungsoo can’t help the smirk that’s growing on his face from seeing the boy so easily reduced to this. He knew there was something underneath all that bravado and self-assured cockiness; he just did not expect it to be stripped away so easily. Still, even if Jongin would prove to be an ordinary teenage boy in the end, his looks were too exquisite for Kyungsoo to ignore. He would have a little fun with the boy. Maybe a month or three. For however long he remained amusing to him.

 

‘’And what did you do, Jongin?’’ He utters. Jongin’s pupils are blown wide, his black eyes having glazed over with want. Kyungsoo wonders what’s going through his mind right now. No doubt the boy’s thoughts have become disarrayed by Kyungsoo’s handling of him. Good.

 

‘’I could show you, sir.’’ The boy manages to squeak out between shaky breaths. It’s cheesy and it’s silly – Jongin is teasing him. The corner of his mouth curves up in that familiar fashion and Kyungsoo smiles right back at the blonde boy. He’s glad Jongin is catching up. It’s never any fun to play alone.

 

‘’Save the porn dialogue for your girlfriends, Jongin.’’ He demands, then jerks Jongin’s body upright and pushes him off the oaken desk. The boy seems taken aback for a moment, his eyebrows shooting up and eyes becoming wide, before Kyungsoo pushes him down onto his knees. This way Jongin and his face are nearly pressed into the erection growing beneath his pants. The younger boy looks up at Kyungsoo through his blonde bangs as he makes quick work of getting Kyungsoo’s pants off his hips, his eyes never leaving the older man’s even as his lips close around his still-clothed cock. He doesn’t flinch when Kyungsoo fists a hand in his hair and shoves him further down, only blushes that much harder. Kyungsoo lets his head fall backwards in bliss. When he lets a deep moan pour out of his mouth, he swears he can hear the younger boy chuckle with satisfaction.

 

Yes, Jongin can stay.

 

*

 

‘’Do you really want to go to Stanford, Jongin? Be another figure on their quota of Asian students? Another bright-eyed addition on their shelf of scholarships?’’ Kyungsoo asks two days later, when Sehun’s gone out with some pretty girl and Jongin had come knocking on his door at ten sharp, asking for a kiss or two and Kyungsoo had, of course, obliged. Now they’re lying in Kyungsoo’s double bed, the white of his sheets creating a nice contrast on Jongin’s dark skin. New York City barges in uninvited in the background, people’s arguments and police sirens hurrying along behind the window on their right. All Kyungsoo hears is the rustle of the sheets as Jongin shifts his body so he can pluck the cigarette out of his fingers. The older man lifts an eyebrow at the boy, but Jongin takes a drag anyway. Youth is wasted on the young, Kyungsoo remembers.

 

‘’It’s a family tradition, sir.’’ The blonde answers through a cloud of smoke. His lips look dry around the cancer stick and Kyungsoo fights the urge to catch his mouth in another kiss.

 

‘’I see.’’ comes Kyungsoo’s reply. He plucks the cigarette back out of Jongin’s fingers and pointedly cranes his body to stub the death stick out on the ashtray on his bedside table. Jongin has the audacity to roll his eyes, and for a moment Kyungsoo is reminded of Sehun. He almost feels betrayed that his mind would let him think of the dark-haired boy at a time like this. The thought is pushed away quickly as Jongin comes up to snuggle at Kyungsoo’s chest, one warm hand placed comfortably on his abdomen, pressing slightly into the skin. ‘’And what did you really want to be? When you were younger?’’

 

‘’When I was very young I wanted to be a dinosaur, sir.’’ Jongin jokes. His smile is sweet and subtle, white teeth bare. Kyungsoo savors it. He runs a hand through Jongin’s bleached hair, all dried-up, broken blonde locks.

 

‘’And what about now?’’ The older man presses.

 

‘’A coroner, sir.’’ Jongin admits. The answer comes easily, not a hint of ridicule in the young boy’s voice. Kyungsoo cranes his head to look at him, but Jongin’s expression is that of schooled gravity. He lightly hums in surprise.

 

‘’Well, you’ve surprised me, I must admit. Did your father’s profession perhaps inspire you?’’ The dark-haired man muses. Jongin’s hair tickles his chest as the boy shakes his head.

 

‘’I’d love to work with dead people, sir. I don’t care for the live ones.’’ He says, looking up at Kyungsoo as he says it, eyes wide and innocent. The statement is a ridiculous one, a teenage cry for attention meant to appall and horrify, and in such sounding absolutely pathetic and not at all frightening. Kyungsoo chuckles. He didn’t expect Jongin to go for such low tricks. It’s childish, even for someone his age.

 

‘’Do you think it shocks me when you say things like that?’’ He asks the younger boy, though he doesn’t bother pausing for Jongin to reply. ‘’Have you ever even seen a dead person before? And I don’t mean your grandfather all prettied up in his coffin.’’

 

The blonde’s mouth opens and closes as he struggles to reply, like a fish gasping for air. Kyungsoo thinks he looks pathetic. Jongin seems so small lying on Kyungsoo’s chest like this, small and thin and young; all gangly teenage limbs and wide eyes filled with naivety and shock. It fills him with reasonless irritation. Time for a lesson in life, he decides.

 

‘’I have,’’ he tells Jongin, ‘’when Sehun and I first came here we didn’t move into this house – we lived in a cramped Brooklyn apartment next to a man who beat his wife every day and a drug dealer on the other side. The noise every evening was incredible. One time when I went to get some groceries a man ran past me so fast I nearly fell over. Then, another man followed. He was dressed in dark blue and it was then I realized he was a cop. I ran after them, like so many others on the street, but I didn’t have to chase them for long. The gun went off, a deep and dry sound that echoes in your ears long after you first hear it, and then before I knew it we were standing around that poor sod. Me and so many other people, we were standing there in a circle, looking down at that man that was shot like a dog on the pavement. He was shot in the head, you see. His brains were all flung out like that, red and pink and shit like you imagine it would but don’t _believe_ it would. He had fallen with his arms in front of him, so they were bent at odd angles, having broken from the weight of his body collapsing on them. From one of his arm the bone jutted out, so sharp and clear. I can still remember what it looked like now. And you know what they did? They scooped him up, just like that, his brains and all in a fucking plastic bag, and they put his death in their database. Another one gone.’’ It takes a moment for Kyungsoo to snap out of his thoughts, pushing the memory of that day far away to the back of his mind. He can still see everything so clearly now. Thank God Sehun wasn’t with him that day. Boy would not have taken a memory like that well: Sehun has never grown out of being a coward. When the story is finished Kyungsoo cocks his head to the side and looks back at the boy who’s still staring at him with those wide eyes.

 

‘’So, tell me. Have you ever seen somebody get killed?’’ He dares.

 

‘’I have.’’ The young boy claims. Jongin’s answer honestly surprises him. When Kyungsoo barks out a laugh at this in obvious unbelief, Jongin frowns at the older man.

 

‘’Why? You don’t believe me, sir?’’ The blonde asks, craning himself up on his arms, moving his body away from Kyungsoo’s. Kyungsoo shakes his head through the small chuckles still escaping his lips. He tries to hide his smile with his hand.

 

‘’No, no, sure. Go ahead.’’ He offers, stretching out his hand in a gesture of allowing Jongin to take hold of the conversation. The younger boy takes his chance easily, looking at Kyungsoo as he speaks. His expression is serious, almost stern, as he tells Kyungsoo about how his little sister had passed away at an early age. Kyungsoo remarks that he’s sorry about that and his smile falls away. He means it.

 

‘’But nobody knows that it wasn’t an accident.’’ Jongin hisses, after he’s explained to the older man about how she came to die in her sleep. His voice is low and his eyes are dark, and the hidden promise in his words makes Kyungsoo unconsciously lean in so as to catch every word that Jongin says.

 

‘’What happened?’’ He asks.

 

‘’I killed her,’’ Jongin says, and it’s with conviction. There’s a moment where Kyungsoo expects him to falter in his joke, for the corner of his lips to shoot up in a grin that can’t be suppressed, but it doesn’t come. Jongin’s mouth doesn’t twitch and his eyes stay focused exactly as they are, gazing deep into Kyungsoo’s own ones.

 

Kyungsoo has seen Jongin lie before, but never as expertly as this. He wonders. Not even the tone of the younger boy hampers, and Kyungsoo feels a cold shiver run through his body as Jongin gestures with his hands as if gripping something small and round, and squeezes. ‘’I gripped her neck like this, tight and close, pressing into her skin. She struggled and squirmed around underneath my grasp. I think her skin got quite purple… but it was hard to see in the dark, you know? She tried to claw at me. You see this scar right here?’’

 

Jongin gestures to a thin line underneath the socket of his eye, just that shade lighter than the rest of his face.

 

‘’She drew blood. But nobody ever found out it was me, sir. Do you want to know why?’’  He dares. There is a wicked grin creeping up the boy’s face. With the poor lighting in the room, it makes his pretty face almost look evil. Kyungsoo swallows. Options are shooting through his head at the speed of lighting. Should he call the police after this? Should he write down Jongin’s words? They might not be true, but who knows? He doesn’t know Jongin. God, what if the young is actually crazy? What will Jongin do to him?

 

With a lump in his throat, he nods. All of a sudden, Jongin bursts out in laughter. It’s not a pretty sound: it’s loud and obnoxious in his childish carelessness.

 

‘’Because I was joking, sir! Damn, did you really believe that?’’ He cries, laughing excitedly. The way he says the words reminds Kyungsoo of playground taunting, the pointing fingers and teasing tones. A nauseous feeling settles in at the pit of his stomach. He wants to ask the boy how he could possibly make a joke like that. Kyungsoo knows Jongin is a teenage boy and that teenage boys lack tact, but laughing about the death of a cousin is more than a bit of naughty tomfoolery. It’s not only distasteful, it’s odd. Unsettling.

 

‘’That’s nothing to joke about, Jongin.’’ He tells the blonde. For a moment Kyungsoo feels like a school teacher trying to control an unruly class of boys, telling them off for being too vulgar. Except this is nothing like that, at all. Everything about this is much, much worse. He’s suddenly aware of his and Jongin’s nakedness underneath the white covers and the gravity of what they’ve just done. His distress settles in, lumps together in his throat as he watches Jongin tumble over himself in laughter still. Before he even realizes it himself he’s jumped out of bed, throwing Jongin’s clothes back at his nude body. The boy barely catches his jeans and shirt through his fit of laughter, blinking up at Kyungsoo in surprise as the older man gets dressed. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth drops into a pout. No fun, his expression seems to say.

 

‘’Get dressed,’’ Kyungsoo orders, pulling the black shirt over his head, ‘’I’m driving you home.’’

 

‘’What, you want to be responsible all of a sudden?’’ The blonde snaps. It’s an accusation and a threat all in one. We both know what you did. Don’t make me tell. Kyungsoo opens his mouth to reply, but his words are swallowed when Jongin’s eyes continue to bore into his. He averts the younger boy’s gaze by staring at the carpet by his shoes instead. He hears Jongin scoff loudly, followed by the rustle of clothes. Jongin’s shirt is inside out and his pants are still unbuttoned as he stomps over to the shorter man and snatches the car keys out of Kyungsoo’s hands.

 

‘’Jongin…’’ Kyungsoo tries, daring to take a look at the blonde, but the boy is already halfway to the car. He heaves a sighs. Then the older man gives in and follows Jongin’s retreating figure down the hallway.

 

 

*

 

Three weeks go by following the incident. There comes no call, no text message from Jongin. The only time Kyungsoo sees the younger boy is when he catches a glimpse of his face in the hall, before Sehun and he go out to see another game, to have another meal. They don’t stay at the house anymore. Kyungsoo is pretty sure why.

 

He almost wants to text Jongin. He wants to ask, to make sure, that Jongin won’t tell anyone. Jongin had seemed angry that day. He had driven himself home without saying a word and of course Kyungsoo hadn’t had the courage to say anything once they’d arrived. Kyungsoo isn’t sure what to make of the boy’s silence, but it seems clear that Jongin isn’t happy. He doesn’t contact him though. Texting Jongin with a question like that would make the blonde appear like the one with the power in this relationship. He isn’t. Kyungsoo is: he’s the adult, after all. He is the one taking the shots – or at least he should appear to be.

 

Perhaps it’s better this way, he figures. Intoxicating as Jongin was, a relationship like that would have demanded his full attention. He would have had to be careful with every step he took and Kyungsoo doesn’t quite think Jongin is worth all that. Jongin certainly is beautiful, but then he did not reveal himself to be that different from anyone else, that more interesting than any other person in Kyungsoo’s life.

 

So why does Kyungsoo still yearn to seek him out?

 

He’s had more than one rather embarrassing dream about a mysterious blonde-haired boy, waking up with cum all in his briefs like a teenage boy. It gives him some insight in what Sehun’s life must currently be like, Kyungsoo supposes. He tells himself it’s nostalgic.

 

Honestly, Kyungsoo isn’t sure if it’s only lust that pulls him back to the younger boy, but he does know that he can’t manage to stay away. With every day that passes, every hour that crawls by, he longs to hear Jongin’s deep voice and gaze into his dark droopy eyes. It’s not just in his mind, he actually feels physical unease: an uncomfortable itch settles underneath his skin, his heart always beating that bit too fast whenever he spots a mop of blonde hair in a crowd, the disappointment crashing in his stomach when it’s not.

 

They shouldn’t work: Jongin and he seem to be as alike as the separate poles of a magnet, but Kyungsoo remembers that even those can clash together with brutal force.

 

It’s why, when Joonmyun asks him if he’s having any progress in his story, Kyungsoo tells him yes. Joonmyun smiles at this, genuinely relieved for his friend, and pats the other man on the knee.

 

‘’That’s fantastic!’’ he cries with sincere glee, though the dark circles underneath his eyes have only grown since Kyungsoo last saw him. He plops down into the white plastic chair behind his desk. ‘’Are you writing already?’’

 

‘’Not yet,’’ The writer answers, a smile finding a way onto his face when he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket, ‘’but I have found… inspiration.’’

 

He hesitates. Joonmyun is looking at him expectantly, leaning forward over his desk, his eyes wide open and filled with questions.

 

‘’Well? Is there a problem, Kyungsoo?’’ The editor urges. A nervous glance at the clock above Kyungsoo’s head. The phone on his desk starts ringing. Kyungsoo knows Joonmyun is already halfway through the next conversation, thinking up sensible ways to break to their fresh new author that their story simply didn’t cut it. Once more, he’s creating extra time for him. Kyungsoo idly wonders if Joonmyun intends to have another hook-up soon. It’s been some time. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be averse. For all of his otherwise quiet and sweet demeanor, Joonmyun liked things to get heavy in the bedroom. Heat starts to pool in his stomach at the memory of Joonmyun, bent over and begging…

 

Kyungsoo clears his throat. He focuses his mind back on the Joonmyun in front of him, still waiting for him to speak.

 

‘’This story… it’s going to be hard. What I’m doing – what I want to write this time is so different, Joonmyun. It’s dangerous. I don’t even know if it’s any good. It might be shit for all I know.’’

 

‘’That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To make sure what gets published isn’t crap?’’ Joonmyun ensures him, crossing his arms. Before Kyungsoo has time to reply the phone starts ringing again, the sound in the small room being as loud and irritating as that of a screeching baby, and with an annoyed groan Joonmyun snatches the phone off its holder.

 

‘’Just a minute please!’’ he barks into the telephone, shooting a glare through the window behind which his secretary is happily chatting away with one of her colleagues. His expression softens when he looks back at Kyungsoo.

 

‘’Kyungsoo,’’ he begins, voice soothing, ‘’you told me you wanted this book to be special. To mean something. Now wouldn’t it be more unusual if you _weren’t_ afraid of whatever you’re writing? I’m here if you need someone to talk to – you know that. If you’re worried about your writing, or, you know… anything else…’’ His tone fades at the end of his sentence, confidence dissolving. He actually blushes at his not-so-secret invitation, avoiding Kyungsoo’s gaze. Joonmyun coughs into his fist.

 

‘’I, er – I need to take this.’’ He offers clumsily, gesturing towards the telephone. Kyungsoo nods at the other man and gets up out of his chair, patting his trousers. Before he closes the door behind him he mouths a quick ‘thank you’ at Joonmyun. The editor smiles back. Their appointment is made.

 

As soon as he turns around, all thoughts of Joonmyun disappear from his mind. Kyungsoo can’t even wait until he’s properly out of the building. He rushes to the men’s and quickly locks the grey door on which various messages are scribbled, sitting down on the seat and taking the phone out of his back pocket. His heart beats rapidly as he moves his fingers over the keypad projected on the screen.

 

 

**10:30 AM**

_Are you still interested? If you are, let’s meet._

**Jongin, 10:38 AM, +42620958901**

_On my way, sir_

 

 

A cool breeze greets him once he gets out of the building. The sun is out, today, and the warmth feels nice on his skin.

 

*

 

END OF PART TWO

 

*

 

PART THREE

 

*

 

With the curtains closed to hide the stars blinking back at him, Kyungsoo’s two-bedroom suite seems a lot smaller than it did that morning. The room smells of detergent (the Spanish cleaning lady’s doing) and badly concealed cigarette smoke (his doing). It’s quiet at this hour, three in the morning, as Kyungsoo barely manages to stumble from the sofa to the wide Victorian style bed in the middle of the room. His surroundings are spinning slightly, as is his vision, and that’s odd for he doesn’t really remember drinking that much. Three vodka colas (class is his middle name) and a glass of champagne, all over a decent period of time. He should be feeling perfectly fine. A little louder than usual, maybe. A little hornier, probably, but not this.

 

Maybe he’s lost his tolerance over the years. After all, Kyungsoo is not sixteen anymore, unlike Jongin who holds him up by his waist as he nearly falls over a bump in the carpet. He had felt very confident that night, holding a long and loud speech about his latest work and the grand ambitions for his current project. The crowd had ooh’ed and aah’ed at the poetry in his words. It had been a gala thrown in his honor, of course, and Kyungsoo had felt right at home behind the microphone carefully lowered to fit his height and the spotlight casting golden rays of light on his suited figure.

 

Now, though, Kyungsoo feels every inch as short as he truly is, as he lets Jongin haul him towards the bed and lay him down upon the sheets, like child exhausted from playing in the sun all day being put to bed by its caring mother. Jongin starts by opening his suit jacket, and Kyungsoo tries very hard to focus on a fly on the ceiling. He tries to swallow the sick feeling in his throat away.

 

‘’Are you sure nobody saw you come up?’’ He asks cautiously, making sure to check even through his drunken need to go to sleep and the distraction of Jongin’s hands roaming very close to his fly. The blonde boy raises his head as the button on Kyungsoo’s trousers is popped open. He looks a little distracted, Kyungsoo notes.

 

‘’Mhmm? Oh yeah, sure. I’ve been the stealthiest person alive since meeting you.’’ He jokes, the corner of his lips curving up in that naughty schoolboy way. The smirk sends a familiar pang of warmth to the pit of his stomach. Kyungsoo swiftly lets his head fall back onto the pillow. _Not now_ , a voice in his mind seems to shout. His stomach twists with nausea at his sudden movement.

 

He really shouldn’t be feeling this bad from a couple of drinks. Something at the back of his mind tells him something is off, but he feels far too miserable to focus on anything but how horrid he is feeling. As Jongin finally peels off his suit pants he rolls around to the other side of the bed so that his back faces the younger man.

 

‘’I’m going to sleep,’’ he announces, running a hand through his dark hair, ‘’I’ve had a drink too many.’’

 

‘’No!’’ Jongin whines, the ‘o’ drawn out long with childish petulance. The bed creaks as the young boy launches himself onto the covers, reaching over for Kyungsoo’s body and softly pulling the black hair in order to regain the elder’s attention. Kyungsoo moans in annoyance, patting away Jongin’s unwelcome hand on his waist and in his hair, the body looming over him.

 

‘’Don’t let me play alone, daddy,’’ Jongin whimpers, putting on a high girlish voice, dripping with derision and over-the-top breathiness Jongin no doubt has learned from many hours spent with one hand on his mouse and the other on his dick.

 

Kyungsoo has to fight the urge to break out into a smirk, but manages to regain his poker face. Jongin’s cheap-pornstar voice _is_ funny. But then, Kyungsoo doesn’t want to give the younger boy the victory of making him laugh. The sooner Jongin gives up, the sooner Kyungsoo can go to sleep.

 

Obviously displeased with the silent treatment, the blonde decides to drop his body down upon Kyungsoo in a tangle of limbs, elbowing the older man in the stomach in the progress. He giggles as it startles a loud ‘oof!’ out of the writer.

 

Kyungsoo is here reminded of the game he used to play with Sehun when his son was only seven years old. Helicopter it was called, where Kyungsoo would line his body up with Sehun’s, his hands holding his son’s, his knees bent at a ninety degree angle as they held up Sehun’s waist and legs. Sehun would break out in ugly laughter as Kyungsoo’s weak arms would give out, shaky legs falling away from beneath the boy, and they both fell into a heap of laughter. Kyungsoo never cared for that game.

 

‘’Tell me, did you learn that line from Blonde Busty Babes or Ebony Madness?’’ he grumbles, managing to shove the weight of Jongin’s body off him despite the boy’s best efforts to remain clamped to his chest. There’s no lightness in his tone. Kyungsoo is in no mood to play. When he stands up from the bed, Jongin scrambles upwards as well, blonde hair a mess from the rough handling earlier. Kyungsoo swallows away another wave of sickness that strikes through his body as he gets up, blinks away black spots in his vision.

 

He really, really needs to go to sleep.

 

‘’God, you’re so _old_ ,’’ Jongin moans, both of his hands covering his face to show Kyungsoo how embarrassed he is with his stuffiness, ‘’who watches porn with titles anymore?’’

 

‘’Those fifty second clips you jerk off to have titles, you little dipshit. You’re just watching them illegally,’’ Kyungsoo snaps, irritation kicking in as another twinge of pain strikes through the back of his head, bile creeping up his throat, hot and prickly and unwanted. He doesn’t have the energy nor the time to put up with Jongin and his jokes right now. He’d like to give the young boy a nice kick to the jaw, make him shut up.

 

He realizes instantly that to snap back at Jongin has been the wrong thing to do: when he removes the hands covering his face, there’s a huge smirk there. His droopy eyes are sharp, and his skin seems even darker than usual in the dim light. Jongin is leaning on his elbows, back against the headboard and legs nonchalantly crossed over each other, head cocked to the side. The picture of arrogance.

 

‘’Damn, sorry gramps. Don’t go calling the porn police on me, yeah?’’ Jongin dares.

 

‘’Don’t talk to me like that.’’ Kyungsoo demands, putting both of his hands on his hips. He holds on to his last shred of hope that this position gives him some sort of authority, though nothing in Jongin’s smug little smile, the twinkle in his dark brown eyes, indicates to this. Kyungsoo feels incredibly vulnerable now, standing there with only his boxers and white shirt on while Jongin is still dressed to the nines in his dark blue suit and black tie. If it had been him lying there, Kyungsoo wouldn’t have taken himself seriously either.

 

With a deep sigh he lets his hands fall to his side, prompting for the honest route instead.

 

‘’Jongin,’’ he begins, ‘’I feel like absolute, utter shit right now. I would love to fuck your brains out – however – I find myself unable to at present. Will your majesty accept my humble vindication?’’ He ends, all mocking Edwardian-tone, unable to keep up the pretense of caring about Jongin’s whims and whines, especially with the way he feels right now.

 

He’d expected a little bit of grumbling from Jongin, hoped for a little chuckle at his joke maybe, but the boy’s face turns to thunder. His eyebrows frown together, the corners of his mouth falling down into a straight line, brown eyes dark with something Kyungsoo doesn’t recall seeing before.

 

‘’You made me wait for you!’’ Comes the accusation, Jongin’s voice booming through the room. It’s unexpected, and it almost makes Kyungsoo takes a step back.

 

‘’’Come to my room after Jongin, it’ll be fun’ – what the fuck was that?’’ The blonde starts to shout, practically snarling as he mocks Kyungsoo’s words right back at him, ‘’I listen to your fucking pathetic speech, make small talk with practically ancient figures all night, I hang up this entire excuse about my Stanford scholarship _just_ to be with you tonight, and now you tell me you’re ill?’’

 

Ignoring the pang to his pride at Jongin’s frank judgement of his speech, the older man takes a step forward to the bed, hands raised in front of him in resignation, hoping it keeps the younger boy from raising his voice even more. The walls are thick here, but even expensive hotel rooms have their limits, and with the way Jongin’s screaming Kyungsoo is pretty sure he can be heard in the ballroom seven stories down. It’s a sudden whirlwind of anger, and Kyungsoo’s more than a little taken aback.

 

‘’J-Jongin, now, hush a little – ‘’ he stutters, but it’s in vain; the young boy is already bouncing off the bed, shrugging on his suit jacket, the collar sticking up comically from his rough handling on the fabric. Kyungsoo doesn’t comment on it as Jongin brushes past him, shoving him aside with his shoulder. The author tries to follow the blonde’s lead, to take a couple of steps towards him, but each one of them sends another jolt towards his already upset stomach.

 

What is this unsettling feeling in his body? Where did it come from?

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t have time to answer these questions, for Jongin turns around one last time at the door, doorknob already in his hand, looking at the older man with venom in his eyes.

 

‘’This was a two-way agreement, Kyungsoo. Don’t think you can shove me around.’’ He warns, tone of his voice ice cold. The darkness in those eyes sends a shiver through Kyungsoo’s body. Once more he realizes the gravity of their arrangement; how Jongin could easily destroy his life with a couple of words, how Kyungsoo himself has placed his life in the hands of this young and reckless boy, and the fear that sparks in his mind almost makes him want to jump out of the window.

 

Jongin slams the door shut, and as Kyungsoo lets himself fall back onto the bed, curling up into a ball, the sound seems to echo through the hall. This must stop, he decides. He continues to listen to the sound of Jongin’s footsteps fading out, until all he can hear is silence. Another heartbeat, and then he’s jolting over to the side of the bed, bile lurching out of his throat, before he passes out.

 

*

 

‘’Sir, there’s a boy in the waiting room for you. He didn’t have an appointment but his name was Jongin Kim and he said he knew you, so… I let him in. He seemed innocent. I apologize if that was wrong of me.’’

 

At the end of her sentence Adhara’s confidence wanes a little, biting down on her lower lip, one hand gesturing through the glass door at a small figure that’s visible in the distance sitting in one of the waiting room’s chairs with his hands perched between his thighs, back curved. Kyungsoo instantly glances up at the dark-skinned woman standing in the door opening in front of him, away from the email he had been reading.

 

‘’Jongin Kim?’’ He repeats. His blood runs cold at the mention of that name. His assistant, unaware of this, nods, the fabric of her dark-blue shawl moving along with her head, and Kyungsoo thinks his heart might have skipped a beat just then. A ray of l’s appear at the speed of light on his screen, and Kyungsoo realizes he’s holding the key. Adhara seems to pick up on his distress, for she continues in a softer tone of voice:

 

‘’I wasn’t sure if you knew him, sir, but he seemed – because he’s Korean I thought he might have been related to you – I’m sorry if that offends you… should I tell him to leave?’’

 

‘’No!’’ Kyungsoo protests loudly, stopping his assistant before she can turn around. A black manicured eyebrow is raised, Adhara’s eyebrows furrowing together. He straightens his back, tapping his forehead with one of his hands as if finally remembering the name of an old song. By now, the realization of what Jongin is trying to achieve has set in. He wanted Kyungsoo to be startled by this, to catch him off-guard. The pure nerve of it all sparks anger at the pit of his stomach. Looking up at his assistant, he smiles at the Arab woman, and waves off her offer.

 

‘’Silly me, that’s true… Jongin is a friend of my son’s. I had offered to give him some advice with his writing. I completely forgot that was today!’’ He offers, shooting a sheepish smile towards the slender woman, shrugging his shoulders in a way that’s meant to say ‘what can you do’? He wants to heave a sigh of relief when Adhara seems convinced by his excuse, mimicking his kind smile, her light blue eyes going soft again through the heavy black kohl that encircles them.

 

‘’Do you want me to call him in here, sir?’’ She asks, head nodding in the direction of the glass door behind them. When Kyungsoo glances at where Jongin is sitting, the younger boy actually dares to wave at him, all loose wrist and sweet smile. Another wave of anger, hot and fierce, shoots through his body. He shoots another dismissive smile at Adhara as he makes to get up out of his chair and walk towards the glass door.

 

‘’No, that’s okay,’’ he ensures her, ‘’I’ll meet him out there. In fact, would you handle my calls for half an hour or so, Adhara? Thank you. You’re a darling.’’ Kyungsoo smiles as he passes the young woman, mind already coming up with a thousand things to spit at Jongin once he gets the boy alone. He can see Jongin sitting in the waiting room behind the glass door, surrounded by empty chairs and an older man sitting opposite of him, phones going off in the cubicles surrounding the area, the excited chatter of people. He walks past Adhara’s desk behind which the slender woman has once again taken place, and opens the glass door. The young boy instantly looks up from his lap.

 

‘’Jongin.’’ He greets, though it’s without any amiability. It’s formal. After all, that is the play that Jongin and him are supposes to be in; such is their transaction. Kyungsoo should put an end to that transaction. He could do it today. He could do it now, even: get Jongin alone somewhere, and tell him how it’s going to be.

 

Kyungsoo knows damn well it isn’t going to come to that. It should, someday, but not yet. He hasn’t grown tired of seeing Jongin. in fact, quite the opposite; Kyungsoo longs for Jongin on days when he isn’t there, imagines him in restaurants and bars chatting away in the seat next to Kyungsoo’s, wants to run his hand through blonde hair when he wakes up in an unknown hotel-room in the morning, scans every person’s face on the train for familiar dark, droopy eyes. Kyungsoo knows: he’s in deep.

 

‘’Mister Do!’’ Jongin exclaims delighted, jumping up out of his seat. The grey-haired man sitting in the other row of chairs has already turned his attention back to the newspaper in his hands after casting a disinterested look at the two of them, so Kyungsoo confidently grips Jongin’s upper arm.

 

‘’Let’s talk somewhere quiet.’’ He announce. The author doesn’t give Jongin time to speak, ignores the surprise in his eyes and roughly drags him into the hallway. They pass through different grey tunnels of the office silently, bricks lined with press clippings and photographs of authors proudly accepting awards, the busy lunchroom with the watercoolers by the doors, until they come to stand at a quiet office at the end of the final hall.

 

‘Joonmyun Kim – editor in chief’ the letters on the door read. Kyungsoo finally lets go of the younger boy in order to fish the key out of his wallet. Jongin instantly points at the letters with a childish pout.

 

‘’What is this? This isn’t your office!’’ He protests.

 

‘’No, you’re right. This is ‘somewhere quiet’.’’ Kyungsoo deadpans, before shoving the younger boy forward into the room, stepping inside himself, and managing not to slam the door shut behind him in anger. He swiftly slides the lock into place before he turns around to face the blonde, arms crossed. Like this, he waits for Jongin to turn his attention back to him, but the boy is already busy rummaging through the files on Joonmyun’s desk, the rainbow of pens collected neatly in an empty coffee mug, and pricking his fingers on the fake cacti on the window-sill.

 

Kyungsoo grits his teeth. His blood is running hot with irritation, words in his throat almost spilling out, boiling upwards, the pressure to explode growing so big he isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep his voice down. Kyungsoo gets fits like this sometimes, where all his anger and frustration builds and builds until he can’t hold it any longer and his brain can barely keep up with all of the energy pouring out at once, so that all Kyungsoo can see is red. They used to be much worse and more frequent, too, but they had mostly stopped since Sehun and him had moved into their new house together.

 

Jongin is pretending not to notice his anger. He is pressing in, testing the waters, seeing how far he can go. If what Jongin wants is for Kyungsoo to draw a line in the sand, he can deliver.

 

Stomping over to where Jongin is playfully pushing the buttons on Joonmyun’s keyboard, he circles his hand around the tanned boy’s thin wrist and roughly pulls his hand off, until it’s raised over his head to where Kyungsoo can barely even reach.

 

‘’Stop that,’’ he demands, voice low and eyes stern as he concentrates on Jongin’s pretty face, the surprise in his round eyes. There’s a glimmer of amusement in there, though the way Jongin flinches at the sudden closeness and has to take a step back is a victory for Kyungsoo. ‘’you’re being rude, going through someone’s stuff like that.’’

 

‘’Well, I – ‘’ the boy begins, trying to wriggle out of the hold Kyungsoo has on his wrist.

 

‘’Shut up, Jongin! What were you thinking, bursting in here like this? Nobody is supposed to know, Jongin! Do you understand that? Does your Stanford mind fucking comprehend that what we’re doing is dangerous? Illegal, even? That I could get arrested!’’ Kyungsoo rages. He is yelling now, he can’t help it. He’s glad for the fact that Joonmyun’s office is nearly deserted, his assistant absent as well, so that he can let the anger in his body burst out. It feels good. He wants to scream until his throat is raw. Kyungsoo tightens his grip on Jongin’s skinny wrist.

 

Jongin’s surprised expression turns sour fast. He presses his lips together into a straight line, square jaw working, his eyes casting over with resentment. The boy tries to, with his other hand, grasp Kyungsoo’s wrist, but Kyungsoo easily catches his other arm as well. It turns the whole thing into a silly dance, Jongin trying to win by pure strength (how all boys fight), lunging his arm forward, but failing to do so. Eventually he admits to his defeat and eases the tension in his thin arms. Kyungsoo waits a minute before letting the blonde go, and takes a step back. He holds his hands in front of his chest. Calm down, he gestures.

 

‘’Okay?’’ Kyungsoo asks. Jongin’s chest is still heaving slightly, long bangs swept over his forehead, nearly pricking his eyes. He nods.

 

‘’Okay.’’

 

‘’You understand why I’m angry – right?’’

 

‘’Yeah,’’ Jongin breathes, ‘’Yeah… I do. I just – sorry. I wasn’t thinking. But I…’’ Here, Jongin’s tone turns soft, the deep timbre of his voice taking on a gentle quality. He bites down slightly on the plump flesh of his lower lip before letting go, reddening the fragile skin.

 

‘’I don’t like meeting in the house. I don’t like tiptoeing around with Sehun in the other room. Honestly – I just want to get out of your house. It makes me feel bad. I want to meet outside.’’ The young boy admits. His slouchy eyes look up at Kyungsoo, Jongin keeping his head bent ever so slightly.

 

‘’Jongin… you know we can’t – ‘’ Kyungsoo begins, expressing his hesitation.

 

‘’No, I know. I don’t mean… _outside_. Just – not at your home. Please. It makes me feel trapped.’’ The blonde interrupts.

 

Kyungsoo stares at Jongin. The admission is unexpected. The young boy isn’t meeting his eyes right now, obviously embarrassed with his request, and it’s odd when the last time they’d met face to face it had been Kyungsoo who had been in his position; helpless and a little bewildered, the hotel room.

 

Jongin’s moods move more than a little up and down, and it has made Kyungsoo wonder. He can’t help it; he’s used to screening people this way, trying to find out a backstory, a deficit, a secret past they won’t tell anyone about. It’s the writer in him.

 

Luckily, Kyungsoo knows who Jongin’s parents are and what their position in society is. Jongin does not suffer from manic-depressive episodes, or even fits of rage (though Asperger’s does not seem far-fetched). It is not because of his friendship with Sehun that Jongin wants to meet elsewhere, nor is it embarrassment at being some distorted version of a mistress; Jongin is bored. Like so many of New York’s young high society, Jongin is so bored out of his mind he’ll try anything to amuse himself. Kyungsoo has read articles about this, has seen entire books publishes on this new urban problem, the _maladie d’ennui_. Entire pages of young girls straying towards dangerous games: drugs and alcohol and heavy parties in foreign countries, faking a name and a personality. When your existence is empty, it’s easy to fake another life.

 

If this is what Jongin wants to cure that boredom, Kyungsoo is all too happy to succeed.

 

‘’Well,’’ he begins, taking a slow step towards the boy, closing the distance between them, ‘’I know people. They can be – discreet. If that is what you truly want.’’

 

‘’Yes. It’s what I want.’’ Jongin agrees, throat working as Kyungsoo steps into his personal space. His plump lips are dry, little light lines forming on the pink flesh like dried-up rivers in a desert landscape. There is sweat drying up on his collarbones and the lower hairs in his neck. Joonmyun’s AC is turned off. Kyungsoo had only been outside for a couple of seconds that day, jumping in and out of a taxi, but he had been glad he’d left his suit-jacket at home. Kyungsoo pops open the firs button of his white shirt, exposing the white flesh underneath, and loosens his scarlet tie. Jongin’s lazy brown eyes follow the movement.

 

‘’But what about me? Hm?’’ Kyungsoo hums, sliding one hand into Jongin’s dampened hair. When Jongin tries to avert his gaze, Kyungsoo lets his other hand slide underneath the boy’s chin, tip his head up so as to make him unable to avoid his stare. He wants all of Jongin’s attention on him: to remember every single one of his words and to feel every touch to his skin.

 

There’s a shift in Jongin’s posture; his back straightening, his head tilted higher, he even dares to drape his hands around Kyungsoo’s waist. His pupils are wide and blown. The challenge has been accepted.

 

‘’How do I know I can trust you? That you won’t pull any tricks on me like at the hotel?’’ Kyungsoo asks.

 

‘’I won’t,’’ Jongin promises, shifting his body closer to Kyungsoo’s, so that their chests are touching. Kyungsoo can feel Jongin’s breath hot on his lips, centimeters removed from the boy’s own. He doesn’t let Jongin lean in any further.

 

‘’That’s not enough.’’ he insists. Jongin needs to be reminded who’s in charge. A small whine escapes the boy’s throat when Kyungsoo lets a hand trail underneath the cheap yellow cotton of his shirt, hips bucking forward. He lets his head come to rest on the older man’s shoulder.

 

‘’Please,’’ Jongin breathes, ‘’please, sir, I – ‘’

 

‘’What if I had something of yours? Something you didn’t want anybody to see?’’ Kyungsoo interrupts, Jongin word’s a heavy distraction that he can’t face up to right now. Lust is rushing through his veins at seeing Jongin so different than usual; so complying, so meek, so _helpless_. The boy lifts his head up from Kyungsoo’s shoulder, black eyes completely glazed over, and tentatively looks at the older man. Kyungsoo swallows.

 

‘’Get on your knees,’’ He orders. It takes a moment – a heartbeat – before Jongin slowly nods and slides down Kyungsoo’s body, his hands holding onto the back of the older man’s knees, and he looks up at him again.

 

Kyungsoo struggles to get his cellphone out of his pocket, trying not to press the wrong buttons as Jongin starts working on unzipping his pants. A part of his mind feels almost silly for opening up the familiar app, a grainy pixels of Jongin coming into view, but most part doesn’t give a fuck. Everything about this is so utterly, utterly _wrong_. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this aroused.

 

By the time Kyungsoo has finally managed to get his phone into place, Jongin has already caught up with what the older had meant, and is enthusiastically rubbing Kyungsoo’s clothed erection with his palm. There is no smirk today; just Jongin’s mouth hanging open ever so slightly, eyes glazed over with lust. When he speaks, his voice sounds broken with want.

 

‘’Can I, sir?’’ Jongin breathes.

 

*

 

END OF PART THREE

 

*

 

PART FOUR

 

*

 

Kyungsoo and his mind are with the protests in India, his mouth busy devouring a Subway Club, when Sehun steps into the kitchen at eight in the morning. It’s Friday morning, and Sehun had better get a move on if he was going to catch the 8:18 in order to make it to school in time. Kyungsoo doesn’t stress him. The boy slouches through the kitchen, his skinny body stretching upwards to grab some cereal out of the upper cabinet, and ignores Kyungsoo’s perky ‘good morning’. This too Kyungsoo doesn’t comment on, and the writer tries to regain his interest in India’s labor party through the clang of sugary sweetness falling into the porcelain bowl, before Sehun goes to sit at the exact opposite end of the island, about two meters away from Kyungsoo. Now, that is a bit much.

 

‘’Are you alright, Sehun?’’ He carefully inquires, peeking over the thick rim of his black specs. It catches the boy’s attention, though he doesn’t bother to lift his head from the bowl of Sugar Puffs.

 

‘’Um, _yeah_?’’ he retorts, making sure to pronounce his ‘yeah’ in such a way that it’s clear Kyungsoo is an idiot for asking.

 

‘’Only you’ve been very silent lately.’’ Kyungsoo tries, not even offended by Sehun’s brashness anymore.

 

‘’How would you know? I mean, like – you hardly ever see me,’’ Comes the attack, all pouty teenage passive-aggressiveness. The harshness in Sehun’s tone is weakened by him choking on a particular troublesome Sugar Puff, though the boy keeps up his dead-stare either way. Kyungsoo puts down the latest edition of The Economist, thoughts on India’s election seeping from his mind. He spits out some of the too-chewy bacon into a napkin. Sehun makes a face.

 

‘’I’m busy with my new book, you know that,’’ the boy’s father points out, ‘’I’m always away when I’m writing on a new project.’’

 

‘’You never used to be _this_ busy,’’ Sehun protests. The boy actually looks up, though for a very brief moment, and what Kyungsoo finds in his small, otherwise calculating eyes, is hurt. It takes him by surprise.

 

‘’I’m sorry if you felt that I neglected you, Sehun, I promise you I never intended to – ‘’

 

‘’Whatever, dad, just leave it.’’ The dark-haired boy sighs, obviously annoyed by having to participate in this conversation. Kyungsoo takes off his glasses and folds them up onto the table, and orders his son to sit back down. Sehun’s expression turns into one of terror at the foresight of a Serious Talk. The older man persists.

 

‘’If you want to talk about _anything_ , you must know I’m here for you, Sehun. My office is open to you at any time, whether here at home or in the city – ‘’ Kyungsoo attempts once more, voice deep and steady, like he remembers his father’s to be. No doubt his voice is far more creaky these days, having grown thinner with old age. Kyungsoo wouldn’t know. It’s been a while since he last took a plane to South-Korea.

 

‘’I’m going up to eat my cereal dad. I need to catch the tube, so, bye, I guess.’’ Sehun shrugs, grabbing his phone in one hand and his spoon in the other, cradling the bowl of cereal to his chest like a baby as he gets up out of his chair. The conversation is over. Kyungsoo is left to sit there, blinking stupidly at the empty spot where Sehun just sat, wondering whether the right thing to do would be to follow Sehun or let him blow off some steam first. He doesn’t get much time to think, for his phone starts to ring, interrupting his thoughts, the loud tune of Tom Jones’ Sex Bomb comically blasting into the room. Damn Jongin.

 

‘’Hello, who is this?’’ He asks, plastic pressed to his ear.

 

‘’Hola!             Mi aerodeslizador está lleno de anguilas. That’s Spanish for: my hovercraft is full of eels.’’

 

Kyungsoo lets his head drop in a mixture of disappointment and relief. No wonder he hadn’t recognized the number. The other must be calling from inside the hotel – Kyungsoo knows he’s cheap like that.

 

‘’Joonmyun. How’s Mexico?’’

 

‘’Well, terrific, as you can hear. _Can_ you hear the ocean? I don’t know. Anyway – did I call at a bad time? Your voice sounds a bit…’’

 

‘’Huh?’’ Kyungsoo blurts, startled. He didn’t feel particularly sad. ‘’No, it’s fine. Sehun was just sulking a bit is all. We had a bit of a row of sorts… oh – I don’t know. Nevermind. What’s the occasion?’’

 

‘’I see. Well, as to why I’m calling: Patricia rang me this morning in utter terror, telling me someone had been in my office. Some files were moved around, she thought we had a communist spy in our company, etcetera. Anyway. Was that you?’’

 

‘’Your office?’’ The writer begins, pretending to ponder on the question for a moment. He can feel his heartbeat speed up slightly in that way it never ceases to whenever he lies. It’s a wicked feeling, though not unpleasant. ‘’Ah, yeah, that’s right. I thought you had this file on the history of – well, I won’t bother you with the details. I thought you had a file I needed for my story is all. You didn’t.’’

 

‘’I figured as much.’’ Joonmyun answers easily, obviously satisfied with outsmarting his assistant. Kyungsoo can picture him sitting with the phone pressed to his ear at some Mexican beach, in white shorts and a white shirt (Joonmyun wouldn’t be caught dead in a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops), cheeks red as a lobster from the scorching sun, a smug smile on his face. The image makes him smile as well.

 

‘’Tell Patricia I’m sorry I left the place in a bit of a state. I just had to get back to writing immediately, you know, writers and ideas popping up…’’

 

In reality, Jongin had demanded Kyungsoo buy him lunch afterwards, and Kyungsoo hadn’t cared to clean up after them. It had been far too hot for any real labor. Joonmyun doesn’t need to know this, though.

 

‘’Yeah, yeah, tell me about it…’’ the other man chuckles, his laughter sweet even through the thick layers of an air interface. In the background a door slams shut; Sehun leaving for the subway. Suddenly Kyungsoo feels a little guilty for forgetting to worry about him so easily. It’s odd – he used to get consumed with his worries about Sehun, so much that Joonmyun would scold him. How had he not noticed something off about his son’s behavior earlier?

 

‘’Now for the other reason I was calling: my plane lands at JFK on Saturday, next week. Sooo I’ll have the evening to myself, as well as Sunday. I was wondering if I could maybe stop by your place for a visit before I go to mine.’’

 

‘’A visit.’’ Kyungsoo repeats, slowly pronouncing each word. Joonmyun gets the message.

 

‘’Yes. A visit.’’ The other man supplies.

 

‘’Saturday, I think. You’ll call me – when your plane arrives?’’

 

‘’Sure.’’ Joonmyun agrees, and thus the arrangement is made.

 

‘’Well then. You stay clear of those tequilas, yeah?’’ Kyungsoo jokes, steering the tone of their conversation towards a nice, clean ending. On the other side of the line, Joonmyun laughs.

 

‘’I’ll try. You take care of yourself. One packet of cigarettes a day is more than enough, Kyungsoo.’’

 

‘’’till Saturday, Joonmyun.’’

 

‘’Hasta la vista, baby!’’

 

The call ends before Kyungsoo can groan at Joonmyun’s awful sense of humor, the beep repeating itself in an irritating mantra. Kyungsoo puts the phone down with a smile, still high with the buzz of pleasant conversation. When he glances down the hall, Sehun’s schoolbag hangs forgotten on the coat stand.

 

*

 

‘’You should dye your hair back.’’ Kyungsoo states, sliding one hand through Jongin’s blonde locks, freshly washed, all nice and soft. He wonders whether Jongin did that for him. The boy shifts in his position, lifting his chin up to look at the man sitting by his feet from where he’s splayed out over the couch. They’re two stories high at 1103B, dirty samba playing in the background from where the DJ is getting people hyped up one floor below the VIP room, all swinging skirts and grinding bodies. The bass can be heard even here, but to Kyungsoo’s relief it can’t be felt. It has always made him feel uneasy to be able to feel the bass in his chest, that uncomfortable heavy treble near his heart, whether at a concert of a club.

 

‘’Why?’’ the boy demands, one lazy eyebrow raised in skepticism. ‘’I like the blonde.’’

 

‘’I do, too,’’ Kyungsoo admits, ‘’but it’d be good for you. For Stanford. It’s more… how do I say – professional. The white people like it.’’

 

‘’I don’t give a shit about what white people like.’’ Jongin retorts, lifting one leg up so that his foot comes to rest beneath Kyungsoo’s chin, supporting the older man’s head on his slight ankle.

 

‘’They’ll be your boss one day,’’ the writer points out, ‘’better get used to it.’’

 

‘’Whatever.’’ Jongin decides with a roll of his eyes. Kyungsoo cringes at the boy’s choice of words. He’s gotten quite sick of hearing that word, in that _tone_. A memory of the conversation between Sehun and him that morning crosses through his mind – all awkward silences and will you pass the butter please, thanks. He wants to say something, but the sound is drowned out by the booming voice of the DJ below, screaming at the crowd how ‘fucking amazing’ this night is. The crowd, in turn, cheers excitedly, hundreds of people shouting at the top of their lungs, clapping their hands together over their heads. Kyungsoo feels incredibly old. The average age at the club must be twenty-two – fake ID included.

 

In order to forget about this fact and his worries about Sehun, he slams down another shot of vodka. It doesn’t make him feel younger, but it does help him relax. Next to him, Jongin jumps up on his feet before pulling on Kyungsoo’s arm.

 

‘’Let’s dance,’’ he manages to shout over the booming bass, ‘’I love this song.’’

 

‘’Oh, I don’t think – I don’t think that’s a good idea…‘’ Kyungsoo hesitates, never having been one to be ecstatic about dance. Joonmyun used to take him to salsa clubs in Barcelona, where Kyungsoo would watch with a martini in his hand as Joonmyun charmed red-clad women with his gracious hips. He won, really, for Joonmyun and him did some dancing of their own in Kyungsoo’s hotel room.

 

‘’Come on!’’ Jongin insists. The boy looks sensual tonight – tight pants low on his hips, white shirt hanging open one button too many (he wonders what Mrs Kim might have thought of the outfit, had she known, but then there would probably be a bigger objection to this outing), blonde hair pushed up carefully to reveal the boy’s forehead. His smile is not at all a smirk this time; in fact, it’s quite sweet. Jongin loves to dance, the author knows. Kyungsoo gives him another shake of his head, repeating to Jongin that truly, he’s a horrid dancer.

 

‘’I don’t care,’’ Jongin maintains, hooking his arms behind Kyungsoo’s body so that his hands come to rest by the older man’s neck, edging his body close to the writer’s. ‘’Nobody’s watching. Just me.’’ He assures him. Kyungsoo smiles a weak smile.

 

‘’That doesn’t make me feel more confident.’’ He admits. Jongin lets his head fall back with laughter, moving his hips against Kyungsoo’s in a way that’s nearly sinful, fluid lines like water, only proving his point once more.

 

It does feel good though, especially when he closes his eyes, and as the music becomes louder and the pace becomes faster, Kyungsoo lets himself get lost in the push and pull of the sound, his and Jongin’s hips moving against each other, down and up, over and over again.

 

The effect of their closeness becomes evident with Jongin quite soon, and he lets his eyes fall shut as Kyungsoo continues their tandem of motions, soft breathy moans falling from his plush lips only Kyungsoo is close enough to hear. The intimacy of it all strikes a bolt of adrenaline through his veins.

 

‘’Do you want to fuck me?’’ Jongin gasps all of a sudden through high-pitched sighs, barely managing to peek through his dark glazed-over eyes. Kyungsoo almost forgets how to breathe.

 

‘’I – yes, yes, fuck – ‘’ he manages, but Jongin laughs and shakes his head. The boy leans in next to Kyungsoo’s ear, speaking slower now, less loudly.

 

‘’Not now. Not here… I – ah – I meant this Saturday. You can hire a room at the Savoy and pound me into the mattress for the entire night.’’

 

His blood practically runs cold. This Saturday means Joonmyun.

 

‘’I can’t.’’ Kyungsoo confesses, hoping Jongin hasn’t caught the way the question made him flinch.

 

‘’Why not?’’ The blonde yells over the rhythmic music that as once again picked up on loudness, leaning in to lick a trail along Kyungsoo’s neck, his tongue hot and slick on the bare flesh. A shiver drives through his body.

 

‘’Work,’’ is all the older man gives as an explanation, but luckily Jongin isn’t in the mood to ask questions.

 

‘’How about Sunday?’’

 

Kyungsoo snatches Jongin by the back of his neck, roughly grabbing onto his bleach blonde hair, pulling his neck as far backwards as he can without making it too harsh on the younger boy, before roughly grinding his hips upwards. A long, strangled moan falls from Jongin’s lips. Kyungsoo smirks.

 

‘’Sunday’s perfect.’’

 

*

 

‘’Don’t tell me this is _actual_ Hwayo soju,’’ Joonmyun cries from where he’s standing by the fridge, head first into the cold. ‘’where did you get this?’’

 

The editor asks as he swirls around, two slender soju bottles in his hand reflecting the light of Kyungsoo’s kitchen spots, holding the liquor up as if they were expensive gems. Kyungsoo barely looks up from his nearly-finished pesto spaghetti, sneaks another bite into his mouth.

 

‘’I didn’t,’’ he explains around a mouthful of high-carb goodness, ‘’Alma found it in some supermarket in Koreatown.’’

 

‘’Why don’t I have an Alma?’’ Joonmyun wonders out loud as he presses one bottle to his cheek, the cool comfortable on his skin, his eyes cast up to the ceiling, mind gone in dreamy fantasies.

 

‘’She does her job well.’’ Is all Kyungsoo replies, pointedly placing his cutlery on his plate and wiping the remaining pesto away from his mouth. One disappointed glance towards his stomach makes him glad he’s finally stopped eating. He really has to start cutting carbs if he wants to stand his own next to Jongin’s muscled torso. The slight outward curve of his belly, the softness there, seems to mock him. He’s started to feel a bit like an old man, lately. Perhaps that feeling in itself is already a confirmation of his fears.

 

He is startled out of his thoughts by Joonmyun, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

 

‘’Anybody home?’’ the brown-haired man jokes. His black eyes are a little wild, a glazed-over look that has been brought about by the wine already consumed that evening. They really shouldn’t drink another bottle of soju, but Joonmyun’s already popped open the cap, and oh what the hell. Kyungsoo will call him a cab. That is, if Joonmyun even leaves at the end of all this. The editor gets to the soju bottle before him, mouth attached to the rim, head hung back with the heavy swig he takes. He closes his eyes against the hot burn of alcohol sliding down his throat, putting the bottle back down with a heavy thud. Kyungsoo mimics his actions. It’s like a ritual; Kyungsoo remembers doing this many nights before.

 

‘’Do you ever miss it?’’ the other suddenly blurts out. He is looking at Kyungsoo with a look the dark-haired man can’t quite place. Normally he understands the direction Joonmyun is trying to get a conversation to steer into, but right now his expression seems too blank. So he gambles; he tells the truth.

 

‘’Never.’’ Kyungsoo admits. It appears to have been the wrong choice, for the corner of Joonmyun’s mouth drops ever so slightly, the excitement in his eyes faltering for a moment. Others would not even have noticed this change in the other man’s face, but Kyungsoo has known Joonmyun too long. He has seen it, and now all he can do is feel a little awkward, a little disappointed with himself for not understand the other’s intentions. Yet despite this, Joonmyun does not back down.

 

‘’I do,’’ he tells the other, voice soft with quiet resignation. He has fallen into one of his drunken slumps, where sadness seems to eat him out from the inside, the world seemingly blackening in the blink of an eye. He’ll feel better after a couple of minutes, Kyungsoo knows. Joonmyun stirs around the spoon in an empty teacup Kyungsoo had forgotten to put with the other dishes some time ago. The repeated clanging noise is irritating to his ears, but he doesn’t comment on it. Joonmyun is further gone than he’d realized. His eyes are not quite staring at something over Kyungsoo’s right shoulder, his thoughts having wandered off to memories of a time in a place where the people where darker and the language rougher.

 

‘’Here,’’ Kyungsoo offers, slipping a packet of cigarettes out of the suit jacket draped over his chair, ‘’have one. Calm down your nerves a bit.’’

 

For a moment all Joonmyun does is stare at the death stick handed out to him, blinking through his drunken haze, before his slender fingers curl around the white. Kyungsoo slides the bottle of soju away as he leans over the table in order to light up the Lucky Strike, staring down at Joonmyun’s black lashes caught over newly-tanned skin. He joins Joonmyun in the languidly huffing of smoke and together they sit quietly like this, the tension between them easing, until Kyungsoo starts to feel almost drowsy.

 

‘’Why don’t you leave?’’ He notes, when the ash from his cigarette nearly crumbles down at his fingertips. After all, Kyungsoo knows Joonmyun’s still has his Korean passport. The man must be more fluent than any native Kyungsoo has ever met, always with his nose in some obscure piece of Korean poetry, and he simply does not quite understand. Whenever Kyungsoo’s ever wanted something, he’d make it happen, no matter how hard the work or how difficult the situation.

 

‘’Work.’’ Is Joonmyun’s answer, clear and simple. He looks absolutely miserable as he says it, and Kyungsoo feels an ache in his heart upon the cruel tone it gives Joonmyun’s already fragile voice. He’ll take poor Spanish jokes over this any day.

 

‘’There’s editors in South-Korea.’’ Kyungsoo points out. Joonmyun gives him a poor little laugh.

 

‘’Yeah. A dying race.’’

 

Then, out of nowhere, confidence seems to take over the other man. His shoulders are lifted and his cigarette he stubs out. The look in his eyes is more clear when he looks at Kyungsoo now, and the slight lift of his mouth seems less fake.

 

‘’I shouldn’t complain. My job is… plenty of people would kill for my job. But you know. Sometimes I miss it – feeling truly at home. I dream of Incheon occasionally; of school girls in uniform and people drinking outside, their voices loud but never hostile, so different from the constant sirens you hear in this fucking city.’’

 

Kyungsoo almost flinches at the swearing. Joonmyun, if catholic, would be nothing less of a saint; all soft demeanor, kind words and more goodwill than Kyungsoo thinks is healthy. It feels wrong to hear him use such words, like hearing your parents talk about drugs and alcohol, or even worse, sex. Then, in his native language, Joonmyun adds:

 

‘’I miss hearing people speak Korean. I miss such familiarity.’’ Kyungsoo realizes it’s been ages since he’s heard Joonmyun speak in their mother tongue. His voice is lower, and his vocabulary is less straightforward. He’s often thought, back when they had first met, that Joonmyun should have been the writer instead of him. Then, when they finally eased into English and the culture that went along with this, this thought had ebbed away. Hearing Joonmyun speak now makes him remember how bewitched Kyungsoo had been by the other man at first, before cheesy jokes and corny pick-up-lines had been set in motion.

 

‘’You have me.’’ Kyungsoo reminds him, the Korean words flowing a bit awkwardly off his tongue, his American accent trying to push through. The switch is hurried and therefore a little rusty. ‘’I’ll drink soju with you every night. So much that you can’t remember whether the ceiling is up or down.’’

 

There’s a slight chuckle from Joonmyun as the other man lets his fingers curl around the shot glass on the table. He motions towards Kyungsoo and then to the glass in a proposal. The writer nods.

 

‘’My very own Korea in New York City.’’ Joonmyun announces as their glasses clink together in a toast, and Kyungsoo can’t help the smile on his face as they link their arms together in a preposterous ‘love shot’. When he finds Joonmyun with a similar expression on his face once his glass is put down, something in his chest loosens. His shoulders feel lighter with the relief of having been able to cheer Joonmyun up, once again.

 

Sometimes Kyungsoo wished they could go back, Joonmyun and him, go to Korea and live a secret life in which they could hide their love affair from the rest of the world while working just the same, the writer and his editor. To be together with Joonmyun, hidden away in their own apartment, their own house, any place they could call their own, really, seemed all Kyungsoo would ever need. Joonmyun could dance all night long and Kyungsoo could cook kimchi fried rice, and they would watch silly gameshows together, perched together on a couch far too narrow, and all would be happy and fine.

 

Kyungsoo thought he had lost feeling that way long ago. However, the spark in his veins and the sharp light flashing through his heart at the lightness of Joonmyun’s smile tells him this flame might now have been diminished after all. He almost wants to tell the other all of this, but lets his pride decide against it. After all, things have changed. There is Sehun, for one thing. There is Jongin, too.

 

Still, it’s hard to ignore how wonderful life could have been.

 

 

*

 

When Sehun shuffles into the living room the morning after, Joonmyun has long gone. Had  Kyungsoo been any other parent, he’d have asked his son where he’d been the entire night. As it is, Kyungsoo trusts Sehun to be safe. If Sehun can survive the streets of Harlem at the age of five, he’ll prosper in the Upper East Side at sixteen. He doesn’t press in.

 

‘’Had a good time?’’ Is the only thing Kyungsoo asks, pretending to be struggling with his scarlet tie, though he’d finished dressing up ten minutes ago. It’s easier when Sehun thinks he isn’t looking at him, Kyungsoo has found these past days. He doesn’t like not being able to see the way Sehun reacts, but he’d rather that than not to be able to talk to his son at all. The younger boy’s only response is a nod, before he lets himself fall onto the couch, long legs draped over the side.

 

‘’Did you find those tickets on your bed? For the Red Hero’s game?’’ Kyungsoo continues, still facing the window on Sehun’s right. A young woman walks by, pushing a buggy out in front of her. He feels for her. Changing nappies on a hot summer day is one of man’s worst sufferings, but the shrieking of a baby must be the worst.

 

‘’Uh, yeah,’’ Sehun answers, barely looking up from his iPhone. He doesn’t sound as excited as Kyungsoo had expected. In fact, there’s a sort of hesitation to his tone. It disappoints Kyungsoo a bit. He had expected Sehun to be thrilled. His son loved football.

 

‘’I’m so pumped,’’ Kyungsoo tries, hoping some of his enthusiasm will rub off on his son, ‘’I can’t wait to watch Jefferson be quarterback again. It’s been some time since we last saw a game together, hasn’t it?’’

 

‘’Um,’’ comes the boy’s reply, the ‘m’ drawn out long. He stops there, before Kyungsoo turns out to look at him, when he finds an apologetic look on his face. He’s biting down on his nails, a nervous habit Kyungsoo has never been able to get him to stop. It’s been some time since this nervous tic had presented itself with his son.

 

‘’I didn’t – I already texted Jongin if he’d go with me?’’ He explains, his voice going up at the end like it’s a question even though it isn’t, in that odd way Australians had. Kyungsoo feels hurt settle in at the bottom of his stomach. He smiles at his son.

 

‘’Oh. Well, that’s even better! I didn’t know Jongin liked football.’’

 

‘’Yeah, he does. Um… so – Jongin told me to thank you for helping him with his article. He says it’s really coming along well. And stuff.’’ Sehun mumbles, having once more been pulled into the magic world of his iPhone.

 

‘’Did he,’’ the older man notes, closing the buttons on his suit jacket. Kyungsoo dimly wonders if Jongin had actually told Sehun to pass that message on and if so, whether it means something, but then maybe Sehun’s just trying to make a little conversation with his old man. It feels extremely personal to talk about Jongin like this, and there is something uncomfortable pulling at his conscience. He doesn’t look at Sehun when he continues.  ‘’Well – I’m glad to help. I have to go now. I’ve an interview with The Times. Don’t wait up for me tonight, yeah? I’ve a lot of work to do at the office. Dinner money is in the usual place. If anything’s wrong, you know you can call.’’

 

Sehun sticks his thumb up in agreement before rolling onto his side, eyes to iPhone and back to Kyungsoo. As the older man picks up his black leather briefcase from the table in the hall, there is distress creeping up his spine, an odd feeling he can’t place. The last time he remembers feeling like this he’d been on Cyprus, writing on his second novel. The next day half of the island had been on fire. He rests his head on the front door for a minute, feeling the cool metal of the doorknocker on his skin. It calms him only a bit. With a sigh he pulls himself together, shoulders back, and opens the door. The heat greets him instantly, flying up through the cracks of his suit, and he walks towards the taxi already waiting for him, the door clicking open underneath the touch of his hand.

 

‘’The Park Savoy.’’ He orders at the man looking back at him through the rearview window, and the car speeds off.

 

 

*

 

It takes him four calls going to voice mail before Joonmyun realizes the familiar Samsung tune is coming from his own suit jacket. Or rather, Kyungsoo’s suit jacket. Their size is similar; it’s not the first time this has happened. The last time had been a while ago, though. A spark of electricity runs through his veins as Joonmyun recalls last night’s events, how fiery the other had been. So unlike his usual cold and sarcastic self. He draws the phone out of the inner pocket and puts it next to his landline. Just as he’s nearly finished pushing the code to Kyungsoo’s home phone number, the receiver perched between his shoulder and face, there’s another buzz. And then another three.

 

One gaze upon his office door tells him that his assistant is out. The waiting room is nearly empty. Joonmyun looks back at the phone lying on his desk, the green light alerting a new message flickering impatiently. He lets the receiver slide from his shoulder and places the plastic back into its holder. A little curiosity is healthy, he decides. It’s human nature to be interested in these things; especially with a man as secretive as Kyungsoo (and a man as nosey as Joonmyun). His finger finds the ‘open’ button. Instantly, tens of messages are displayed on the screen, Kyungsoo’s replies far more scarce than those of the person on the other line. They’re flirty and more than a little intimate, and Joonmyun immediately regrets his curiosity.

 

**Jongin, 09:23 PM, +42620958901**

_Are you still coming or what?_

**Jongin, 09:23 PM, +42620958901**

_You must know how impatient I get, sir._

**Jongin, 09:23 PM, +42620958901**

_Do you expect me to start all by myself?_

The last message is accompanied by a photograph that, more than a little, tickles Joonmyun’s loins. It doesn’t fit with the way the messages are written; the pure teasing tone, the ridiculous emoticons here and there. They’re almost childish. The picture is anything but.

 

Somehow, it feels like a stab in the back. He of all people should realize that Kyungsoo was not a saint, nor a conservative prude (as some in the literary world still insisted), but he did not recognize this person either. Like some college boy, fucking one person while Grindr blinked with messages on the bedside table, sending naughty pictures to one another, doing God knows what to each other. He’d felt so flattered by Kyungsoo’s attention just last night. Now that feeling of flattery seems humiliating. Shame, hot and heavy, sets in his stomach.

 

Joonmyun abruptly pushes the button on the side of the phone, switching off the device. The voice of his assistant is preceded by the creak of his intercom springing to life.

 

‘’Patricia? I have Kyungsoo Do’s phone here – he appears to have left it in the wrong office. Make sure it gets to his home. Thank you.’’

 

*

 

PART FIVE

 

*

 

Kyungsoo closes his laptop with a slam – the force of which makes a loud clicking noise – and for a moment a strike of panic runs through him at having ruined his laptop, but when the top part is pushed up again the half-empty Word pad still springs to life, the emptiness of the screen taunting him. According to schedule, he should have at least five chapters finished by this time, but there are barely two thousand words in the document altogether. It’s not writers block. Kyungsoo doesn’t know what it is – perhaps his will for perfection, for no sentence he writes seems perfect enough to keep, perhaps it is that he does not know what he is working towards. Whatever it is, it’s a Massive Pain in the Ass. The writer sighs deeply and stubs out the cigarette nearly burning his fingers. A handsome pile of cigarette buds has already formed in the ashtray sitting comfortably next to his grey Asus. He looks at the piled-up crumble of lung cancer, then back at the screen, and pushes his chair backwards, out from underneath his desk. He pops downstairs with the thing perched in one of his hands, emptying the contents into the bin for further use. He’ll make himself a cup of coffee, he decides, freshen up his mind a bit. Kyungsoo doesn’t care much for coffee, but it’s rather early for a glass of vodka. As the machine beeps and puffs with this labor, Kyungsoo rubs his tired face with his hands. Maybe he should phone Joonmyun. Tell him that progress isn’t going as planned. The idea is off-putting. It wouldn’t be, normally, but Joonmyun is far too sentimental to keep work and relationships separated (work and fucking, really, but Joonmyun would never call it that) and he can almost hear the awkward pauses and the way the other would skirt around the subject. Kyungsoo is struck by the notion that he’s definitely fucked up work regulations. Do not sleep with your co-workers. Do not sleep with your _boss_ –  because it messes shit up. Maybe he should tell Jongin that. Some great advice they won’t teach at bloody Stanford.

 

In the adhering living room, bright, cartoonish music springs to life. When Kyungsoo looks over he can make out the silhouette of Sehun perched behind his Xbox 360, pajamas still on. On screen a half-eaten zombie is holding a Kalashnikov aggressively aimed at the viewer. Kyungsoo’s never seen this brand of male teenage hysteria before. A new game, then. How nice.

 

‘’Good morning,’’ Kyungsoo says as he walks through the door opening, cup of coffee in his hand, ‘’should I join you for a round?’’

 

He’s expecting Sehun’s non-amused frown and a cold, dismissive ‘no’. What he finds instead is a different face looking back at him. Kyungsoo almost takes a step back in shock, managing to catch his reflex just in time. The surprise must show in his face, for the boy laughs at him, his brown droopy eyes curving into half-moons. He happily greets the older man with a small bow.

 

‘’You dyed your hair back,’’ is the first thing Kyungsoo thinks to blurt out. The curtains behind Jongin are still closed, allowing only for a few stray beams of white to enter the room. With this poor lighting it had only been natural for Kyungsoo to assume that an unidentified black-haired boy in his living room should have to be Sehun. Obviously not. Who knows who else he might find in his living room one day.

 

As Kyungsoo’s eyes scan the rest of Jongin’s body, confusion perks up in his mind. The clothes Jongin are wearing look oddly familiar. And was that not the watch he had bought Sehun last Christmas? A brutish gold Rolex, trashy and tasteless. The boy had almost begged him for it. Kyungsoo is almost sure it’s the one: he couldn’t forget a thing as ugly as that.

 

‘’Are you – are those Sehun’s pajamas? Where is Sehun anyhow?’’ He notes, taking one step closer to the boy, his eyes scrunched together in inspection of the fabrics in the poor light. Jongin lets go of the green-and-white controller in his hand, scrambling up from his cross-legged position on the floor, and walks up to the older man.

 

‘’This?’’ He pulls at the bottom of his shirt, as if forgotten what he himself had been wearing, ‘’Oh, yeah. Sehun’s getting us breakfast from Mickey Dee’s. You can have my McChicken if you’re hungry, sir.’’

 

The non-reply is obviously all the answer Kyungsoo’s going to get, for Jongin is curling his hands around the mug in his hands, then takes a sip of the brown liquid before plopping back down onto the living room couch. If Kyungsoo swiftly rakes his eyes along the scene, it still looks as though the curled-up form of human is his son sitting on the couch. Some unsettling feeling creeps up his spine, goose-bumps travelling along his arms. He tries to shake it off. His hands seem far too empty without the heat of the mug comforting him and he wishes he had a cigarette. He looks at the boy once more, sitting alone on the couch, now peeping through the one opening in the curtains, watching the passerby’s as they crawl over the pavement, on their way to their shitty jobs and shitty lives. Jongin, despite his slightly toned physique, still carries that skinniness only teenage boys seem able to have. Long, wiry, skinniness, stretched out limbs and thin wrists; a body that can’t quite catch up with its intense growth. A question bubbles up into Kyungsoo’s mind.

 

‘’Jongin,’’ he starts, attracting the boy’s attention as he leans his body against the door post, crosses his arms, ‘’do your parents… do they never worry? Do they know where you are right now, for example?’’

 

‘’Huh?’’ comes the unimpressed reply, Jongin barely looking up from his espionage, ‘’My parents? Sure, I call them.’’

 

‘’Well, I’m sure you do – but you are away _very_ often. Don’t they tell you to… I don’t know, to study, or to spend time with them? To stay at home?’’

 

Now the boy sharply turns to him, eyes tight in a glare.

 

‘’Are you going to treat me like a child now?’’ he spits. Something hot and heavy comes over Kyungsoo, his cheeks growing heated with embarrassment. There’s an accusation behind Jongin’s words, an entire history of words unsaid but echoing between them every time they meet, and it stings. It promptly shuts him up. Jongin, seemingly pleased with this victory, gives a small smile and turns back to his violent video game. Kyungsoo remains standing in the door opening, useless, not knowing what to say or do next. For a moment he feels frozen, mind not occupied with anything at all, until the loud bang of the front door jumps him out of his daze, and he’s greeted with the greasy smell of cheap fast-food.

 

‘’Hey!’’ Sehun notices as he walks into the living room, a plastic bag carried in front of his belly as if it were a small child, ‘’are you wearing my pajamas?’’

 

*

 

‘’Ugh,’’ Jongin moans, stretching out on the sofa like a cat, ‘’what are you listening to? Is that fucking _Mozart_?’’

 

‘’I believe so. Although his full name was Wolfgang Amadeus fucking Mozart.’’ The older man replies, not looking up from the excited ticking on his laptop-keyboard. Not acknowledging children lets them know you’re in charge. Kyungsoo heard that somewhere, probably picked it up at the doctor’s office one day, overhearing two blabbering housewives with their bulging bellies and gushing gossip. From by the side, Jongin lets out another sound of despair.

 

‘’God, you’re _so_ middle class,’’ he complains, ‘’it’s pathetic.’’

 

Kyungsoo turns towards the younger boy splayed across his couch, currently looking up at him from where his head is propped up on his hand, and slides his black specs off his face, presses his cigarette into the ashtray, the faint red light of the burn fading into the grey dust under the press of his finger.

 

‘’I can’t work if you’re going to be a brat. Leave or be quiet.’’ He offers. A childish roll of the eyes follows, the boy giving utterance to his frustration with another groan.

 

‘’Whatever,’’ he complies, letting his head drop down onto the couch once again, about as graceful as a string of spaghetti flopping about, falling from the silver clutches of a fork. Kyungsoo turns his head back to his computer, but his mind doesn’t follow. He tries to sneak a stealthy peek at the black-haired boy without moving his head, pupils moving towards the corner of his eye socket. On days like these, he feels more like a tired babysitter than a middle-aged man in a passionate love affair with a beautiful boy. Jongin’s idle impatience didn’t used to bother him this much. After all, it was never going to be Oscar and Bosie twenty-four seven, but lately Jongin’s behavior has been more agitating; more selfish – more childish.

 

He could have all of this with Joonmyun, with far less of the trouble. Why does he even keep Jongin anymore? If not the physical side, what is the point of all this? They haven’t even had sex in a long time. When Kyungsoo had last clutched Jongin’s knee behind the white curtain of their tablecloth at the Ritz, the boy had shifted away. A cloud of unfamiliarity had closed in on them like that, and Kyungsoo hasn’t been able to shake the feeling ever since. He knows Jongin feels the same. It’s why his manner seems put up right now, too fake.

 

The writer swivels the leather chair around.

 

‘’Jongin,’’ he calls. His voice is deeper, his glasses pushed up and away from his face, nesting snuggly in between messy black hair. ‘’Jongin, sit up.’’

 

‘’Why?’’ the boy drawls, looking up at the ceiling of Kyungsoo’s study, his hands lazily draped over his stomach. The black dress shirt he’d put on has been tucked out of his slacks and is riding up ever so slightly from the boy’s wild ways of sitting, a small section of tanned skin peeking out.

 

‘’Because I told you so.’’ Kyungsoo insists, voice tight. His back is straight and his gaze is clear, and though he is not standing up, he can tell this posture gives him some height on the younger boy, who, lying on the couch, is beneath him. Something in Jongin’s mind seems to click, for the boy finally turns his head towards the writer, one arm slowly lifting himself up into a sitting position. His movements are slow and lazy. Too lazy for Kyungsoo.

 

Not even two strides and he’s reached the sofa. Jongin’s eyes go wide as the older man roughly clutches him by his wrists, and with a jerk brings the fragile limbs together behind his back. Kyungsoo’s glasses fall to the ground somewhere in the background, easily forgotten.

 

‘’What are you doing?’’ Jongin sputters, tone tittering ever so slightly. His voice sounds nervous, but Kyungsoo can tell there’s excitement in his eyes. Jongin is hesitant to know what is going to happen next, but he is curious. His heart must have sped up by now, a rush of adrenaline pumped through his veins, mind riling off all the wicked possibilities that are confined in Jongin’s pure and fragile imagination. Kyungsoo must show him. Jongin wants this; he is only slightly unsure of what it is that he desires.

 

‘’You listen to me when I talk, yeah?’’ he demands.

 

When the boy doesn’t immediately respond, Kyungsoo pulls on one of Jongin’s wrists, making the other flinch ever so slightly at the uncomfortable tug of his arm. He looks as if he wants to say something, mouth slightly open, but Kyungsoo shuts him up.

 

‘’You respect me. You do _not_ undermine my authority.’’ He demands. ‘’You do not ridicule me.’’

 

By now Jongin is nodding at every word that comes out of Kyungsoo’s mouth, perfectly obedient.  

 

‘’Yes, yes, yes of course – ‘’

 

When Kyungsoo slams their mouths together, Jongin’s words fall away. In fact, nothing but Jongin seems to exist in that moment, and Kyungsoo realizes the adrenaline might be running strong with him as well. Cupping the younger boy’s face with his hands, something akin to anger rushes through his heart when he feels Jongin’s smaller ones come to rest over his’. He slaps them away and catches Jongin’s body underneath him, arms pinned to the cushion underneath the boy’s body. Jongin is still gasping in surprise when Kyungsoo forces one of his legs to fit between Jongin’s.

 

‘’Did I tell you to do that?’’ the older man shoots. Jongin blinks up at him, mouth hanging open and pupils racking from left to right. His chest moves up and down like the waves of the ocean with every gulp of air he takes.

 

‘’I – no – ‘’

 

‘’Then why did you?’’ Kyungsoo scolds. As he looms over the boy’s thin body, something foreign seems to take over. He sees Jongin’s eyes, his droopy eyelids and deep brown orbs, and imagines what it would be like to see him totally wrecked. The image of Jongin, tied down and weeping, excites him so much it almost hurts. He wants to destroy Jongin. He wants to take this boy in a way that will make him unable to speak, unable to think, nonsense falling from his lips and tears falling from his eyes. He wants to hear desperate noises reach his ear and to leave Jongin gasping and begging for him to do something, _please_. Lust does not rush through his body, but want consumes him. The desire to _take_ and never let go. To claim what is his.

 

Within the fragment of a moment he has Jongin turned over, one of Kyungsoo’s hands keeping him down, the other working down the boy’s pants, sliding the black material over hipbones slightly peeking out from beneath dark skin, the curve of Jongin’s ass slight but sinful in the knowledge that nobody has dared to touch him there before. He could use his hands – press a bruise into that skin. Mark Jongin as his. Another rush of arousal shoots through him, the warmth in his stomach tightening. Kyungsoo can barely wait. He struggles to work his fingers around the mechanism of his belt buckle, all the while Jongin wrestles and bucks beneath him. His breathing speeds up.

 

‘’Kyungsoo,’’ the boy is gasping, voice high and pathetic, ‘’Kyungsoo, I – Kyungsoo, mister Do, sir, please – ‘’

 

‘’Yeah? You want this?’’ Kyungsoo gasps, leaning in and latching his lips onto the skin beneath Jongin’s ear. The boy makes a sound that’s close to a sob and it takes all of Kyungsoo’s willpower not to slam into him right there.

 

‘’I know you do, you fucking slut, you want me to give it to you like this?’’ He growls.

 

‘’No!’’ comes the cry, loud and desperate, seemingly echoing in Kyungsoo’s ears. ‘’No! I don’t! Please, sir – please stop!’’

 

His body does not still immediately, but when Jongin finally manages to turn his head around, hair wrecked and mouth quivering, his dark eyes full of tears, Kyungsoo’s grip on the boy’s hands loosens just enough for him to break free from underneath the older man’s hold. An ugly sound escapes Jongin as he scrambles away from the couch, doubled over from using too much energy, ending in a sob.

 

‘’What the fuck, man?’’ he cries as he stands there, gasping, his eyes never finding Kyungsoo’s. There is fear in his voice. ‘’I mean – what the fuck! Shit, I – ‘’

 

Thin arms shoot up to grip strands of his black hair. His back is slightly arched, the younger boy’s slight body turned away from Kyungsoo, as he wipes away the tears and snot from his face in embarrassment and bewilderment. As if only now realizing what has gone on, Kyungsoo snaps out of his position, awkwardly re-buckling his belt on the couch. His erection still presses against the band of his trousers as he stands up. He swallows, but his throat still feels raspy.

 

The boy flinches when one arm is reached out to him, turns his gaze away from the older man’s. They stand there. Jongin worries his lower lip with his teeth, arms crossed in front of his chest like a shield, while Kyungsoo desperately tries to catch his eye, and fails. He wants to say something, some sort of apology, but words fail him. Somewhere behind them, a police car races past, sirens screaming at them through their silence. Neither of them comment on it, though both notice.

 

‘’I’m going home.’’ Jongin announces with a final sniff. He does not wait for Kyungsoo to reply, nor does he take the time to grab the bag that is still left on Kyungsoo’s bedside table with spare clothes and his blue Gameboy Colour inside. Kyungsoo does not remind him of this, nor does he speak to or follow the boy down the stairs. He waits in this exact spot until he hears the booming slam of the front door and the high sound of an engine purring to life, the car thrifting away.

 

Kyungsoo gets underneath a warm, steaming shower, and closes his eyes. He wraps his hand around his body and brings himself to completion with rough, hard strokes. All the while, the image of Jongin and the desperate tears in his eyes remains burned on his mind.

 

*

 

When Kyungsoo calls Sehun’s name three times and the boy doesn’t answer, the older man finally realizes it’s because Sehun is out with a girl to see some action movie in the city. He’d forgotten for a moment, with all the hectic chaos at the office of legal problems regarding his last novel and phone calls from his bosses about why are you not making progress yet this novel is scheduled to be released this fall. Loneliness comes at him at the speed of a car crashing into another, violent and unassuming, grips him by the throat. He had hoped to watch a nice film with Sehun, prop their legs up on the coffee table and watch Liam Neeson shoot up some brown bad guys, not talking but enjoying the feeling of being with someone else. The emptiness of the house seems to resound around him, and Kyungsoo feels self-pity at being alone after a tiring day at work; the worst kind of feeling.

 

Other days he’d call Joonmyun, but the man had been odd today, pestering him with questions about whether he was seeing someone or sleeping with someone or some combination of the above. He did not seem calmed by the fact that Kyungsoo’s answer to this was a resolute ‘no’. Kyungsoo doesn’t even know why Joonmyun cares so much. Or perhaps he does know, but he does not understand. Perhaps sleeping with Joonmyun after so long a time turned out to be a grave mistake. It’s a pity. Kyungsoo likes being with Joonmyun. He likes talking and cracking jokes with the other man, sliding his hand through Joonmyun’s soft black hair (some sort of coconut shampoo, cheap but sweet), and kissing his soft lips (lip balm, always next to his keyboard – not flavored). He likes parting with Joonmyun after they’ve fucked. Why Joonmyun wants to change their relationship now, after all this time, Kyungsoo has no clue. He doesn’t want to encourage the other man though, which is why his phone is put on the round hall in the table, resting underneath the grand golden mirror which greets everyone that walks into the Do residence.

 

Standing by the staircase, Kyungsoo hesitates for a moment. He takes off his coat and hangs it onto the stand, and places his briefcase by his cellphone, the electrical device resting snuggly onto the leather. Then, he takes exactly nine steps up to the landing, and moves not into the right (his usual direction) but towards the more foreign left.

 

The door to Sehun’s room has been decorated in many ways over the years: colorful letters spelling out the boy’s name (still there); a ‘no smoking’ sign put up in rebellious adolescence, a poster of a seductive Megan Fox, pouting her lips at the onlooker; and now a poster for an open-air, midsummer festival Kyungsoo knows must be crawling with drug dealers and drug takers alike. His hand trembles slightly as he turns the handle. He hasn’t been in Sehun’s room for some time now. Bedtime stories haven’t been required for years, and Sehun washes his own sheets – something Kyungsoo suspects has more to do with teenage embarrassment than maturity settling in. What he expects to find is chaos: empty packets of crisps, half-eaten dinners molding away in the corner, socks and underpants cluttered on a floor that can hardly be seen through dirty shirts and jeans worn down, a waste bin full of shameful tissues.

 

Only the last turns outs to be true.

 

Sehun’s room is clean. The desk standing in the left corner of the room is organized; no shirts or leftover candy bar-wrappers lying about. His son’s wide double bed gracing the middle of the room is neatly made up. A slight suspicion shoots up in Kyungsoo’s mind. He had told Alma to leave Sehun’s room be, but the woman was a most enthusiastic housekeeper and perhaps even more stubborn than Kyungsoo himself. By Sehun’s work or Alma’s, anyhow, not a speck of dust is to be seen on any of the half-empty bookshelves containing DVD boxsets of violent and boob-happy TV series and disgustingly graphic video games. The window on the left side hangs open, the cool night air breezing in through the small openings of the greyish bars protecting the glass.

 

Kyungsoo steps into the room. The tidiness is calming, albeit surprising to his parental mind. On his right, next to Sehun’s overflowing wardrobe, is his Xbox, still plugged in to the small TV Kyungsoo had handed down to him. The screen shows Kyungsoo something he can’t understand, of figures and today’s date displayed in the left corner of the screen, vulgar and excited messages from people with names like _killj0y_ popping up in the other. When they had first moved here, Sehun had whined Kyungsoo into buying his first game. A Nintendo 64, bought from the children of the Turkish grocery shop owner, who had long moved on to the newer, more popular, console. Kyungsoo doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sehun happier than when his tiny body first sat in their cramped living room, perched between the TV and the coffee table, looking up at the screen where he was making Mario kill trolls and eat mushrooms and hit his head against bricks to the happy music of Koji Kondo. Kyungsoo remembers it all being very trippy. He never succeeded at winning but one level. Saving princesses would never be his forte – his experiences with the opposite sex had always been rather disappointing.

 

Right on top of Sehun’s linen-covered pillow lays a pair of blue pajamas, neatly folded, pants upon shirt. Now that Kyungsoo knows to have been Alma’s doing: Sehun couldn’t fold his own clothes like that in a million years. The boy had two left hands, at best – an unfortunate inheritance of Kyungsoo’s own. He smiles at the memory of seven-year-old Sehun and his clumsy hands trying to put together a Lego house, and failing. How the boy had wept as Kyungsoo had struggled to put block upon block, the atrocity that they had finally ended up with.

 

The writer walks towards the bed, then sits himself down onto the edge of the soft duvet just as two cars speed past, their engines roaring in the wind. He’s careful not to crinkle the sheets. Something tells him Sehun wouldn’t appreciate this tour of his room. The thought saddens him. They grow up so fast, they say, but Kyungsoo never thought he would come to mind. Had time then now finally come for them to become like all the other families in this forsaken city? Pretending to like each other, smiling and hugging away like cheap toothpaste commercials, and then behind closed doors scowl and scream at each other like a bunch of beasts. Or even worse, ignore each other’s existence entirely; the bullying of the bourgeoisie.

 

Kyungsoo’s hands find the smooth fabric of the blue pajamas. He lets his fingers rake through the soft fiber, enjoying the gentle sensation. Suddenly, he realizes: these are the pajamas Jongin had so oddly borrowed that day. They had seemed a bit tight on his body, though the fit must be perfect for Sehun. He was such a skinny boy, after all. Kyungsoo glances at the half-open door into the hallway. It would be ludicrous for Alma to be here at this hour, but people like Kyungsoo grew to always be looking over their shoulder. Turning his head back to the clothing clutched between his hands, he brings his nose towards the wool. Jongin’s smell still lingers there.

 

*

 

‘’Fuck, Joonmyun, I’m so close – ‘’ Kyungsoo grunts, head thrown back as he continues to pound into the man beneath him, pressed into the matrass on all fours. He enjoys the way Joonmyun’s lower back curves upwards into his ass – and what a fantastic ass, too – and the way the man has to clutch onto the duvet in his inability to speak, consumed by lust as Kyungsoo continues to drive into him. Joonmyun only makes a breathy, muffled sound as he pushes his hips backwards, wanting more, more, more of the other man. Kyungsoo can feel his skin getting that much hotter, a drop of sweat escaping his hair, sliding down his temple. He lets his hand slide along the arch in Joonmyun’s back, up until the dip at the very bottom, reaching the slope of his behind. A thought pops up into his mind – one that tightens the coil in the pit of his stomach instantly, making him that much closer.

 

Joonmyun’s voice breaks on a moan as Kyungsoo suddenly pulls out, the other man’s pale body falling forward onto the matrass. Lifting himself up on his elbows, Joonmyun tilts his head so as to look up to the other.

 

‘’Why did you stop?’’ he breathes, voice groggy with lust, deep brown eyes glazed over.

To Kyungsoo, Joonmyun’s body is perfect; pale and slight, with just enough muscle to get him out of ‘underage twink’ – _just_ enough. It’s far different from Jongin’s thick thighs and tanned flesh, but just as arousing is how small Joonmyun looks when Kyungsoo is taking him like this. Far gone are the tailored suits he hides behind, the feigned arrogance and confident manner Joonmyun would have when talking to those around him. There is no charm here: only animal want.

 

Kyungsoo’s arm shoots out in the other’s direction, one hand coming up to clutch a fistful of the editor’s black hair. Joonmyun winces as his head is jerked backwards, his arms flying up to join Kyungsoo’s, trying to put a stop to the assault.

 

‘’What are you doing?’’ the editor tries, arms pulling on Kyungsoo’s grip. The look in his eyes is one of annoyance, thin brows furrowed together in confusion, his round eyes half-shut against the pain of the violent assault. Joonmyun’s strength is a better match than Jongin’s, but even here Kyungsoo has far more leverage than the other. A satisfied smirk finds its way onto his face. With his other hand he presses into Joonmyun’s hip, looming over the other’s body as he pushes him further back into the mattress.

 

‘’Isn’t this what you wanted? Because you were begging for it just minutes ago,’’ Kyungsoo groans. Joonmyun’s expression turns sour.

 

‘’What the fuck? This isn’t fun for me, Kyungsoo, what is this – some kind of power trip?’’ the other man tries, now wrestling against the force of Kyungsoo’s hands pinning down both his arms next to his head, black mob of hair still a mess from the rough handling earlier. His lips are a pretty glazed-over red, slick with spit, and his eyes still shine with arousal, even through the scowl on his face. Kyungsoo’s mind floods with ways to wreck that mouth.

 

‘’Did I tell you to speak, you fucking slut?’’ He spits.

 

‘’Kyungsoo, what the _fuck_?’’ Joonmyun cries, visibly offended, then louder: ‘’fucking stop this!’’

 

There’s an edge in his voice that surprises Kyungsoo. It’s not like how it had been with Jongin at all. The younger boy had been obedient, sweet, and lost. His cry had been a plea for Kyungsoo to stop, the shaking of his voice caused by slight fear. He had expected his old friend to react similarly, at least. Instead, Joonmyun’s yell had been an order.

 

The hold on Joonmyun’s arms weakens, and in a second the other man has wriggled out of his grasp by his own power. As he stands up, Kyungsoo notices the other man’s arousal has completely gone. Joonmyun’s movements are rapid as he moves through the hotel room, collecting clothes and slipping them on as if he had a train to catch, the fabric of his shirt roughly pulled down with such force Kyungsoo almost expects it to tear. Had the quality been less, it might have. He watches the other the man as he walks towards the round wooden table in the corner of the room, snatches his car keys off and makes to walk out, before turning around to face Kyungsoo once more.

 

‘’Okay,’’ he begins, the anger still visible in his eyes, audible in the strength of his speech, ‘’I don’t know what that was. Maybe work’s been though, yeah? A new story and all that shit? But I’m – I’m not here for… whatever has gotten into you tonight. I thought you called me… because you cared for me.’’

 

Kyungsoo blinks up at the other man. An odd feeling comes over him. It reminds him of what he had felt just moments ago, only the lust has disappeared. There is only anger now, and something akin to disgust, though not for himself, but with the other man for not understanding. God, how he wants someone to understand. It makes him feel anxious, as though there is something crawling underneath his skin. How his fingers ache with the want to smash something to pieces.

 

‘’I suggest we forget about this,’’ Joonmyun announces, looking between Kyungsoo and the car keys in his hand, before he straightens his back one last time, ‘’well then. See you at the office.’’

 

Kyungsoo doesn’t leave the hotel until five hours later. He sits there, cross-legged on the bed, until the feeling crawls up onto his shoulders, runs through his veins, and finally settles underneath his skin.

 

*

 

PART SIX

 

*

 

Kyungsoo passes the rest of the summer through a haze of cigarettes and writing. There comes no more visit at three in the morning, and though Sehun doesn’t tell him about who he meets when he goes out in the evening, Jongin comes to the house no more. Kyungsoo apologizes to Joonmyun for his aggressive behavior, and the other happily excepts the writer’s remorse. It’s a lie, really. The anxious feeling jittering underneath his skin never leaves. It settles on his shoulders, like the thick layers of sweat crawling and trailing over his skin on a hot Sunday morning, surrounding him always. There is shame in the feeling. It burns and pulls at Kyungsoo’s conscious, screams abuse at his mind. Joonmyun laps up the excuse anyway. Believing what one wants to believe is always the easiest route to go.

 

Jongin seems to vanish into thin air. Kyungsoo knows he shouldn’t feel angry with that, but he does. Admitting Jongin was more than a charming face and a fine body is tough, but the truth so often is. Kyungsoo takes a week off, takes a plane to South-Korea. It is not _his_ hometown he visits. On a trip to the local market he spots a boy with familiar droopy eyes and skin as dark as chocolate. His voice is sweet and his body is thin underneath his hands. Kyungsoo leaves the day after.

 

When September comes around and thin teenage girls start changing their hot pants for tight skinny jeans, the title of Kyungsoo’s new novel is announced to the public in flashy New York-style on the top of the Ritz Hotel, with rippling champagne and rich, obnoxious socialites in sunglasses and Chanel. Joonmyun stands on the stage next to him, not as his editor but as his partner. His smile is wide and his teeth are pale as snow: Patricia had recommended a wonderful Los Angeles clinic to him. Whenever the other laughs at a joke, Kyungsoo wants to smash every single one of the pearly whites out of his mouth.

 

Skip to November.

 

Kyungsoo trails his hand over the stale colored covers standing proudly in one of the five bookcases encircling him. He knows it’s supposed to be here somewhere: he had used it last Thursday as well. Or had he left it on the coffee table? If so, Alma might have put it away somewhere. Perhaps in Narnia or some other dimension. God knew where that women hid the things Kyungsoo lost – but no, he had put it back. Ah! That was it. He had placed it in the corner, by the other books collecting dust (cookery books – awful cookery books), so as to find it quicker. Triumphantly his hand hovers over the back of Diel’s collection of sea creatures, before a voice almost startles him, his feet nearly slipping on the wooden ladder.

 

‘’Sehun told me you might be in the library.’’ Comes a cool, deep voice from behind him, a figure standing in the door opening. The author recognizes that voice instantly. His heart nearly skips a beat, excitement surging through his body. He turns around to look at the boy.

 

Tanned skin, pitch-black hair, features fine and a body well-kept. There he stands, as if nothing about this was abnormal.

 

‘’Sehun was right.’’ Kyungsoo offers, keeping his voice from trembling with the excitement rushing through his veins. Then, slowly, so as making sure not to stumble, he crawls down the ladder, one step after another. When his feet finally touch the ground he looks at Jongin once more, the book clutched between his sweaty hands.

 

The boy that stands before him is already a different one from when Kyungsoo had last seen him on that shameful day at the hotel. You can never set foot in the same river twice, Heraclitus had once observed, for other waters are ever flowing in. The same goes for people.

 

Jongin’s appearance is different, his black hair neatly combed back and his clothes the uniform of neat middle class Stanford students wanting to be taken seriously (dress pants, white shirt, an ill-fitted suit jacket, obnoxious silver Rolex and the sense of an enormously inflated ego). Kyungsoo spoke at Stanford once. What was wrong with those people – he wondered? How cynical they were; they don’t smile, they smirk! Jongin is wearing that expression right now, cold and distant, and all at once it’s like their first meeting.

 

Kyungsoo goes over different approaches in his head. You didn’t return my calls – desperate. Where have you been? – no. Definitely not: it would only draw attention to the time that has passed. The older man stands there, uselessly, at the bottom of the ladder, staring at the younger boy. It is he who speaks first.

 

‘’Working on your new book?’’ Jongin asks, nodding towards the Diel’s clutched between Kyungsoo’s sweaty palms, hands keeping in his pockets. Kyungsoo nonchlantly steps into the conversation with him as if there hasn’t been a six month leap.

 

‘’Ah – yes. Have been working quite hard on the novel for some time,’’ he says as he slides the ladder back into its spot at the corner of the bookcase, the soft thud the slide gives momentarily the only sound in the room. ‘’it’s been going well, I think.’’

 

Here, he faces the boy again. Jongin tilts his head ever so slightly to the right, one eyebrow lifting up. His eyes are dark and inviting, the playfulness the author had gotten to know seemingly having disappeared. It is as if the boy had adjusted himself to the outside world, had put on his steel dress for the cold winter months, so different from the bright-eyed, sun-tanned youth he had been when Kyungsoo had last met him. There is no room for jokes in this conversation. Perhaps this is what Jongin had wanted from the beginning: for Kyungsoo to treat him as his equal. If so, that was ridiculous. Here was a child, spoiled rotten, handed everything of worth in his life, and here was Kyungsoo, a self-made man with more knowledge of the world than there would ever be in Jongin’s self-absorbed bubble of luxury.

 

The younger scrapes his throat.

 

‘’Have you eaten?’’ comes the question, all nonchalance and je-ne-sais-quoi, one hip cocked to the side. It’s different from the way Joonmyun usually asks it (over the phone and with worry in his voice). Here, Kyungsoo looks at his own watch only to discover he has been working through breakfast and lunch alike. It’s five o’ clock.

 

‘’No… Alma brought me some watermelon, but that’s it. She fears me dying from McDonalds, you know, judges Sehun and me terribly for it. Have you met Alma? You’d like her, I think. She’s Polish, but she makes the best kimchi jjiggae I know.’’

 

In the back of his mind Kyungsoo imagines dimly having this conversation with Joonmyun. The other would giggle, no doubt, and tell him the older woman was right. Take care of yourself – he would insists. A sense of warmth blooms in Kyungsoo’s mind at the thought of it, a private smile curving up to his face.

 

Jongin taps his foot once. His lips are tight.

 

‘’No, I have not.’’ He answers coldly.

 

‘’Oh. I see.’’ Kyungsoo mumbles, a flash of embarrassment rushing through him. Of course Jongin would react that way – how stupid of him. He feels some relief when Jongin brushes the topic away quickly, merging to their roles again.

 

‘’I was just thinking of going to the Four Seasons. Only Sehun has gone out and a dinner for one is so vulgar.’’ As he says it, the younger boy toys with his silver cufflinks, long black eyelashes swept like feathers over gorgeous chocolate skin. Kyungsoo can’t help but stare. What features this boy possessed! The landscape of that magnificent face – such articulate cheekbones, the imperial cut of that jaw! Beauty like that could surely not be compared to the skinny twinks walking around the many gay bars of New York, skittering and scattering here and there, hoping to get off, hoping to get a free drink. How had he managed without him?

 

Kyungsoo holds back a snappy remark. It’s even harder to hold in the immediate consent he wants to give the younger boy. For the first time in months he feels what it means to truly breathe, what it means to truly looks around you and not just see the rich spectrum of colors of the afternoon sky and the earth-brown of the oak tree next to the white French windows, but to feel overwhelmed by their magnificence. To feel the want of capturing this moment forever, so as never to feel tired again, to be stuck in permanent ecstasy. How fine the world was at times like these.

 

There’s a moment where neither of them say anything. Kyungsoo not daring to speak first, Jongin not wanting to. This is where it starts. This is where they find their power, once again, the balance on which their relationship will have to rely on. It is the younger boy that finally gives in first.

 

‘’Would you like to come with me?’’ he presses.

 

Kyungsoo walks past Jongin, out of the room, placing the Diel on the early nineteenth century coffee table lining the hall. He tosses a look over his shoulder.

 

‘’Aren’t you coming?’’ he calls as he shrugs his black coat off the hanger, grabbing Jongin’s which has been draped over one of the chairs in the corner of the room. The fabric is cold and moist. It is only now that Kyungsoo recognizes the soft tapper of rain drops falling on the roof in a calm, soothing rhythm. When he peeks outside he can see the trees swaying from left to right, their leaves being violently jerked into the air.

 

‘’I’ll call a cab.’’ The older man offers, motioning towards the window. As he presses the familiar number into the tiny keyboard of his phone, Jongin’s hand slides up his arm, comes to rest over his’. The device is clicked shut by the younger man. Kyungsoo looks up at his face, finding a teasing smirk, that dimple on the right side of his mouth visible from this close. Kyungsoo remembers that look from when he had first spoken to the younger boy like this. He feels as bewitched as he had then.

 

‘’Let’s walk, instead.’’ Jongin decides. His arm slides around Kyungsoo’s waist, hand coming to rest on the small of his back. The touch is warm though unfamiliar, yet Kyungsoo finds himself leaning into it anyway. This close, their difference in height is more noticeable. It should irritate him, really, but how can Kyungsoo lie to himself? This is what he had wanted, what he had craved – but he had been too blind. Now he could finally see. Jongin had known all along; had known even more so than himself.

 

‘’People will see us,’’ Kyungsoo argues uselessly, ‘’we had an arrangement.’’

 

‘’Then you had better be real quiet, hadn’t you?’’ Jongin retorts, before leaning into Kyungsoo’s personal space, their chests nearly touching. From this close, Kyungsoo can see once more the scar right beneath Jongin’s eye, the one he had made that horrible joke about back then – the memory of which makes him shiver. Jongin’s lips look soft and full, and it takes all of his willpower not to press against them. Instead he waits as Jongin’s fingers crawl over the front of his coat, until they find the first button. He stares down at his hands as he works it close.

 

‘’You missed one,’’ he offers, keeping his hand against Kyungsoo’s chest, dark eyes never breaking their gaze. Kyungsoo looks back into his eyes, those brown-blacks filled with youth and promise and the bourgeoisie; everything he despises. He looks back at Jongin and feels something snap in his mind.

 

‘’Where the fuck did you go?’’ he whispers harshly, and he can actually feel the tears prickling behind his eyes. Oh, how relieved he felt! How did he stand the torture all this time? The answer was so simple. It had been waiting for him, right here! His arms fly up to clutch at the sides of Jongin’s coat, their foreheads pressed together, and Kyungsoo practically breathes Jongin. He thinks he can hear the rhythmic beating of the boy’s heart, can feel the sense of anxiety in his mind.

 

Jongin cups Kyungsoo’s face between his hands, fingers sliding through his short black hair, entangling with his body; becoming one. They stand there, the rain falling outside, stand there and hear and feel nothing but each other.

 

‘’I’m here now.’’ Jongin murmurs into his ear, breath hot on Kyungsoo’s skin, swaying their bodies left and right slowly, as if dancing to a soothing sonata. He places a hand over the older man’s neck as a sobs escapes his throat, and hums that sentence over and over into his ear like a mantra.

 

*

 

“Is it better for a man to have chosen evil than to have good imposed upon him?”

 

― Anthony Burgess, _A Clockwork Orange_

 

*

 

Joonmyun feels content with the clear, crisp click of his office door gives as it shuts behind his back. Finally, work is done. Another sixteen hours of whining authors and stressed-out higher ups moaning about deadlines not made that the young man no longer has to worry about. He feels, as he opens the door to the yellow cab and tells the Moroccan man the now so familiar address, that he is happy to go home. Yes. Home. For Joonmyun feels that he has earned the right to use that word when referring to Kyungsoo Do’s penthouse situated on the Upper East Side. Ever since Joonmyun brought over some of his sweaters that past Christmas, more and more of Joonmyun had slowly slipped into the Do household: the feathered pillow he couldn’t sleep without, his favorite aftershave, the laptop he used for correcting quick drafts, some pairs of underpants (Calvin Klein – black ). And then, after one of so many mornings of sharing cereal with Sehun, Joonmyun found himself no longer returning to the other side of town.

 

As he recalls this to himself, some nervousness slips into Joonmyun’s mind, just as they pass the curve on which lies the all-organic supermarket where white middle class mums buy food for their precious angels. Would it last, then? Finally, this time, would he and Kyungsoo continue to be like this until they breathed their last shallow breath? Joonmyun wishes it would.

 

They had history, Kyungsoo and him. But when this was pointed out to the author not two days ago, Kyungsoo had not replied in the way Joonmyun had thought he would. In fact, the older man hadn’t said anything at all. This had made him nervous. Even now, as the car drives up to the house, the gravel making a racket underneath the leather tires, Joonmyun can’t shake the anxiety out of his bones. He fears the feeling of happiness the most. What if it all turns out, inevitably, not to be true?

 

Kyungsoo’s mind has been too absent lately. It’s not that Joonmyun hasn’t seen the other man like this before: Kyungsoo always turns into his own mind when working on a novel. But this time it’s different – and Joonmyun can’t put his finger on it. It stresses him out.

 

With a sigh he gets out of the car, paying his chauffeur and listening to the car speeding off back into traffic. Inside of the house, the grand golden mirror of the hall greets his tanned face. Dimly, Joonmyun wonders what else this mirror has seen. It’s a little confronting to see your reflection as promptly as that, violent and unsolicited, and he thinks, not for the first time, it an odd choice for a man as calm and private as Kyungsoo.

 

‘’I’m home!’’ he shouts, patting the January snow off his coat. Upstairs he can hear the light tapping of feet on wooden panel, the sound coming from the study, but it is not Kyungsoo who replies to his call.

 

‘’Oh, hey, mister Kim, how was work?’’ Sehun calls, sliding out of the kitchen. He holds out the red carton container of McDonald’s fries he’s holding to the older man in an offer. Joonmyun shakes his head. The boy shrugs, as if to say ‘your choice!’ and continues chewing enthusiastically, mouth hanging open.

 

‘’’t was fine.’’ Joonmyun answers through a yawn. He props his briefcase upon the coffee table and slides his fingers through the paperwork there. Then, flinching slightly, he looks at the boy again.

 

‘’Shouldn’t you be at college?’’

 

Joonmyun is met with an unimpressed glare, Sehun obviously not pleased with the mention of school.

 

‘’It’s a Saturday. You know I come home on the weekends.’’ The boy pointed out, all dead-stare and french-fries stuck between white teeth.

 

Right. Berkeley college – how could Joonmyun forget? He shoots the young boy an apologetic smile.

 

‘’Ah, right. Well then, I’ll just go up and see what your father is up to – ‘’

 

‘’Dad isn’t there,’’ Sehun interrupts, ‘’he’s gone away for the week and Alma is cleaning his study. She said it needed that, too. Apparently it smelled like a pigsty in there – that’s what she told me. And he’s always complaining I leave my shoes around and shit, that fucking pisshead… I mean, I love him and all, but he moans too much.’’

 

‘’Your father isn’t here?’’ Joonmyun asks, startled, neglecting Sehun’s teenage woes of being misunderstood. The boy nods, seemingly a little irritated, as if Joonmyun’s an idiot for even asking. Another scoop of fries are pushed into his mouth before he answers the stupid question.

 

‘’Yeah, that’s what I _just_ said.’’

 

‘’But where has he gone?’’ cries Joonmyun a little too loudly, the anxiety now blasting full-speed through his veins. Why hadn’t he let Joonmyun know? He felt, more than anything, that something was off. The uneasy feeling clawed at him, strongly gripping him.

 

Here, even the young boy looks surprised, his small calculating eyes widening ever so slightly.

 

‘’Didn’t he tell you? He’s giving a series of lectures in San Francisco – at Stanford.’’

 

*

 

Stanford university dorm rooms are like any other dorms in the country. There is a general clutter of empty dinner plates, pamphlets for poetry slams and freshman drinks, cd’s and books that will hopefully make a good impression on their fellow university peers (Bach, Wagner, Rachmaninov, Tolstoj, Freud) and unwashed laundry lying about between the bohemian bedsheets and rows of $5 Christmas lights hung in celebratory fashion above the bunk beds.

 

Kyungsoo wouldn’t know this – he barely muddled through high school in a different country. Coming here felt so incredibly new, as if it were not Jongin but he who was attending university for the first time. There was an excitement that seemed to ooze from the every corner of the place: from the stately white arches of the dorm’s front door to the green grass of the courtyard on which students frolicked, to the mighty stacks of ancient books hidden like treasures in the magnificent library – a sort of tittering that made Kyungsoo want to get up and _do_ something: all these young people with intellect and promise in his veins! Everything seemed so much more electrifying, the colors of life so much more fluorescent! A bustle of late nights filled with parties where booze flowed and drugs and philosophical conversation were rich – early mornings filled with lectures on the changing roles of the Daggett Collection from the tribes of the lower Klamath River (or something equally silly Kyungsoo couldn’t pretend to understand). He had felt ridiculously nervous about coming here – as if a bunch of snotty, over-privileged, posh twats should possibly frighten him! But then, here he was, with a lump in his throat and his shoulders hunched, his hand trailing over the white-painted wood of Jongin’s desk. There is an expensive MacBook perched on there, the background of which is a triumphant picture of Mark Zuckerberg.

 

Never in his life, not even on one of the many pompous galas Kyungsoo has attended, has he felt this out of place.

 

‘’So what is your roommate majoring as then?’’ he asks, turning around to face the young boy behind him sitting on the bed, swaying his legs back and forth, ‘’Computer science?’’

 

‘’Comparative literature.’’ Jongin answers simply, as if this answer was obvious.

 

‘’Of course.’’

 

The older man sighs, then lets himself fall down into the soft white duvet of Jongin’s bed. Jongin, sitting next to him, doesn’t move. Kyungsoo cranes his head up to look at the other side of the room and finds Bill Gates and Nelson Mandela staring him back in the face. He wonders how anyone can sleep with so many eyes watching them. Kyungsoo’s old room certainly never had any poster of Kim Taehee or Kim Jongkook. When he moves his head to Jongin’s side in order to look at what is plastered on those walls, he finds nothing but red brick. Jongin’s space looks more like an Ikea display room than the dorm of a seventeen-year-old university freshman, except for a bunch of comic books strung about the room (mildly homoerotic fiction – Kyungsoo thought it was cute).

 

The both of them are silent. Kyungsoo dimly listens to the chatter of people in the dining hall all the way across the campus – about five hundred people giggling and laughing and making conversation in one gigantic, explosive bubble of speech – making its way to Kyungsoo’s ears. He wonders how Jongin will manage to sleep at night.

 

The sun has already set, greyish darkness making their way across the green fields and red bricks of the campus, like mist settling over the roads on a spring day. Kyungsoo closes his eyes and enjoys the near-silence; the comfortable presence of Jongin by his side. He has started to doze off when the sound of a text alert comes from his pocket, shrill and unwelcome.

 

**19:56 PM, Joonmyun**

Have fun in SF! Hope your lectures go over well!!! Don’t forget to work on your story!!!!! Sehun sends his love

 

He reads the message once. Twice. Almost instantly, Kyungsoo can feel guilt gripping him by his throat. His heart sinks with a painful pang in his chest.

 

 _Sehun sends his love_.

 

 Simple words. Almost casual, yet – a feeling akin to panic settles over Kyungsoo. It’s too familiar – too much like something a married couple would write. How far did their relationship truly stretch? Perhaps – had Kyungsoo let the other man believe too much? He was the one that had invited Joonmyun to their house. He had never told him to go back home. This was his doing.

 

‘’Who’re you texting?’’ Jongin asks from by his side, startling him out of his thoughts. The boy is now leaning towards the older man, his dark brown eyes focused on the phone. Kyungsoo childishly moves it out of his sight.

 

‘’Oh, it’s nothing.’’ Kyungsoo declares, closing the message. Jongin leans over Kyungsoo’s shoulder, breath hot on the older man’s ear as he speaks, a frown on his face. He doesn’t seem content with the non-answer.

 

‘’No, tell me.’’ He presses. Kyungsoo laughs a little.

 

‘’I told you it’s nothing, why the sudden interest in who I text?’’

 

There’s a slight pause. Slowly, Jongin lifts his head from the older man’s shoulder, his dark, droopy eyes slightly squinting as he looks at Kyungsoo’s face. His pitch black hair has been neatly arranged to be out of his face, those glass cutting jaw bones seemingly the only thing Kyungsoo can focus on, his right eyebrow raised somewhat. Then, calmly, the question:

 

‘’Was that Kim Joonmyun who texted you?’’

 

Kyungsoo sits up from where he had been leaning on his elbows. The sudden transition to his native language startles him. It sounds foreign on Jongin’s tongue – perhaps it was only taught to him later in life – and with a start he realizes this is the first time he has ever heard the boy speak in Korean. The language doesn’t seem to flow over his tongue like it should; it falters and sticks on the end of the words. The older man stares back at Jongin, stares right into those dark hooded eyes, and with one foot steps into the abyss.

 

‘’Now what do you know about Kim Joonmyun?’’ He asks slowly, carefully.

 

At the corner of Jongin’s full, round lips; a twinge. There is disgust in the way the left corner curls downwards ever so slightly, how his strong-set jaw seems to become even tighter.

 

‘’I know he’s your editor. Know you’ve been living together – real cozy and shit.’’ Jongin says practically against Kyungsoo’s lips, his posh accent slipping on the profanity. The younger boy’s body is close enough for Kyungsoo to lean in and steal a kiss, yet the tension in the air would sooner call for a fist to his face.

 

At this point in the conversation the author leans away from Jongin and stands up from the soft cushion of his dorm room bed. Jongin watches him and waits for him to speak. When no sound comes, he slowly curls together his arms and legs, long graceful limbs folded over one another with the practiced ease of a dancer. Kyungsoo looks at Jongin, his hair all mussed up and poised against the tanned skin of that pretty boy face, his clothing neat and nouveau riche, and makes sure to give his voice a lower tone.

 

‘’You know _nothing_ about Kim Joonmyun,’’ he states, ‘’and you know _nothing_ about my relationship with him. Do I make myself clear?’’

 

A grin makes its way onto Jongin’s fine features, his lips curving into a teasing smile as he chuckles at Kyungsoo’s statement. He looks up at the older man, his expression turning once more into stone.

 

‘’I want him gone.’’ He says.

 

This time it’s Kyungsoo’s turn to laugh. It’s big, boisterous laughter, one that mocks the recipient, one that never fails to make the other party embarrassed, no matter how legitimate their words may have been. It does the trick with Jongin as well; Kyungsoo can see the irritation come into his eyes, the glimmer of annoyance in the black.

 

‘’You have to choose – one or the other,’’ he insists, the words reminiscent to Kyungsoo of childish whining, ‘’I don’t like sharing. You can’t have me and him both.’’

 

‘’Oh, I think I can,’’ Kyungsoo instantly replies, ‘’In fact – I think I have.’’

 

Jongin jumps up from his bed, his height instantly towering over Kyungsoo. He brings their bodies close, chests nearly touching, and stares down at the older man. If looks could kill.

 

‘’If you don’t get rid of him I will tell people about this,’’ he says. His voice is low. This is Jongin’s version of a threat, the author realizes. Kyungsoo’s lived in too many shit holes for too long a time to be even slightly impressed.

 

‘’I bet the tabloid press would be real interested.’’ Jongin continues.

 

‘’Tell people _what_ , exactly?’’ Kyungsoo demands, his voice loud. The young boy seems surprised by the lack of reaction his words bring forth. For a very slight moment, he seems to lose confidence, his eyes flickering up and down the older man’s body, before he finds his grip again.

 

‘’About this criminal offense you’re committing!’’

 

It’s a yell. And there it finally is: the elephant in the room. After more than a year, the utterance of that thing that has always lingered between them wherever they went, the whispers in conversations unsaid. Kyungsoo had been terrified of this, had lost nights of sleep over these words ever coming into life. But Jongin has come too late.

 

The older man shakes his head at the younger boy and takes a step back, walks up to the window. Jongin trails after him like a puppy desperate for attention, roughly grabs his arm from behind. Kyungsoo shoves him off with a tut of annoyance. When he looks at Jongin, there is once more the realization of physical weakness in the boy’s eyes. He is reminded of that night with Jongin in his office – that wonderful night – and finds a smile crawling up his face.

 

‘’Hey!’’ Jongin cries, ‘’Did you hear what I said? I’ll report you. We – we’ve got something here. You told me that yourself. Remember back in November? You always say how you hate the middle class and all that, but you chose me. You chose me because we understand each other! Right?’’

 

The last word is almost an afterthought, as if Jongin is waiting for some kind of confirmation. He probably is, Kyungsoo considers. The author looks out into the campus and sees a sea of black; the oak trees on the path in front of Jongin’s dorm room rustling their ink-colored leaves in the evening wind. He turns around and finds Jongin, his face scrunched up in a plea, eyes wide.

 

‘’I’ll report you. I mean it.’’ He repeats once more.

 

Kyungsoo lets out a light laugh.

 

‘’There is nothing illegal about our relationship, Jongin. You’re seventeen now – perfectly legal in the eyes of New York city law. You think a failed assault case will look good on your CV? People hate rape. It’s ugly.’’

 

‘’It was illegal when we first started this.’’ Jongin is quick to say. His hands are balled up fists, back straightened uncomfortably, neck straining to gain even more height on the older man in front of him.

 

‘’And how do you propose to prove that to a jury?’’ Kyungsoo asks, ‘’You have no evidence.’’

 

He looks at Jongin with venom in his eyes. It’s time for the end of this conversation.

 

‘’When we first started this I warned you that you were skating on dangerous ice. Don’t make me _push_ you off the cliff.’’ He snarls.

 

‘’You don’t believe I can do it,’’ Jongin realizes, ‘’you think I’m full of shit.’’

 

The author shrugs.

 

Jongin takes a step forward. Then another – closing in the space between the two of them. Kyungsoo thinks this entire thing is starting to look a lot like a dysfunctional dance. The black-haired boy gestures to their surroundings.

 

‘’Did you forget where we are?’’ he asks, ‘’I’m a smart boy. I received a proper education. My father is a fucking procurator. If you think you’re safe, sir, then you’re a lot less smart than I thought you were.’’

 

His voice is deep. Jongin’s eyes have become wild and intense, as if having taken some kind of drug. Without realizing it, a shiver makes its way through Kyungsoo’s body. He remembers one of the first conversations he ever had with Jongin – that odd joke he had had about his sister, how taken aback Kyungsoo had been then. The boy’s voice now is the same as that day.

 

He swallows. Kyungsoo slides his hands out of the pockets of his suit jacket. Before he can make to leave the room, Jongin reaches out his hand and softly, almost gently, touches the older man’s face. His eyes are still the same: shifting from side to side, seemingly not sure what to take in first.

 

‘’I hope you make the right choice, sir.’’

 

*

 

PART EIGHT

 

*

 

‘’You’re a goddamn asshole, Kyungsoo!’’ Joonmyun declares. ‘’You are and always have been!’’

 

It’s four in the morning. Kyungsoo had just sprung it on the other man (late nights always made him so much more courageous). The look on the other man’s face is a curious mix of frustration, sadness, and mostly anger. In the dim grey light of the streetlamps shining in from outside, Joonmyun’s small black eyes seem to be filled with fury.

 

‘’Please keep your voice down,’’ Kyungsoo pleads, ‘’Sehun will wake – ‘’

 

‘’I don’t give a shit!’’ Joonmyun interjects, yelling. The other man flinches.

 

He can see the restlessness in the other’s eyes, can practically _feel_ all the things he wants to say, but they are too many words for this conversation. They simply won’t fit. And so, both of them end up saying nothing at all. Kyungsoo remembers nights in Brooklyn and Manhattan, in cheap diner’s by the roads of Las Vegas and in cramped bedrooms in foreign hotels. He remembers Joonmyun and everything that he composes. He remembers and his heart fills with regret.

 

‘’We tried.’’ He offers. They are the wrong words. Kyungsoo wants to tell Joonmyun just how little his voice belies of the tremendous ache in his chest, how he wants to say so much more, but there’s a lump in his throat and a promise in the back of his mind.

 

The other man looks at him and shakes his head. His hands are balled up in fists as he throws the carryall filled with Joonmyun over his shoulder.

 

‘’I’ll have someone pick up the rest of my stuff.’’ he tells Kyungsoo.

 

It’s exactly eight steps from the stairway to the front door. Kyungsoo counts them. One, two, three, four…

 

‘’See you at work, Kyungsoo.’’

 

The front door slams. There is the sound of gravel crunching beneath Joonmyun’s expensive leather shoes (Italian - a Christmas present from Kyungsoo) and then, nothing. Kyungsoo lifts his hands up to his face. Beneath his eyes, there are tears flowing down, streaking past his nose and ending by his mouth, and he tastes the salt on his tongue.

 

He feels the whimpers ripple through his chest until he is doubled over and on his knees, sobbing. All the while, Kyungsoo feels as though he is living in someone else’s body, looking down on his figure doubled over by the end of the staircase. Pathetic. Selfish.

 

He never expected it to hurt this much.

 

*

 

Long, thin fingers grazing over the starched white front of his shirt, until grabbing hold of the silk white of his tie. Twisting and curling, one loop over the other, until finally the perfect form arrives.

 

‘’There you go, sir,’’ Jongin smiles, ‘’all set for your first ever Stanford ball.’’

 

He gently pats the elder’s shoulder and looks up into his eyes. Jongin’s hair has been cut short so as to allow the spring wind flow languidly through the black locks, tickle him behind his ears. It allows his cheekbones to spring into view more vividly. They seem sharper today.

 

‘’Where is my corsage?’’ Kyungsoo jokes. Jongin chuckles. It’s a charming laugh, albeit a fake one; Kyungsoo heard the boy use it many times in his speech at the university that last winter.

 

The youth stares at him. Kyungsoo can feel his dark eyes run over his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his mouth. Jongin lifts up one hand, runs it slowly through the black of Kyungsoo’s hair as if discovering this feeling for the first time. One strand falls away to prickle at the older man’s eye. He blinks.

 

‘’Look at you,’’ Jongin says, his hand continuing his path down the author’s neck, ‘’all polished up and ready to go into battle.’’

 

His thumb comes to press into the cleft settled on the lower part of Kyungsoo’s neck.

 

‘’You pretend to hate us, yet you wear our uniform.’’

 

‘’I never liked white tie.’’ Kyungsoo objects.

 

Jongin’s eyes soften. He smiles.

 

‘’Let’s go.’’

 

*

 

Kyungsoo stares at his screen. Almost done. He’s never written anything this fast before. Only the end is missing still. A couple of days, perhaps a few weeks, and he’ll be able to call his publisher. How pleased Joonmyun will be. Kyungsoo hopes the other man will accept to see him when the time comes.

 

He stares past the row of words at the charcoal wallpaper forming the study. The blackness had comforted him when he first started living here. It was his own space, hidden from the world and everyone in it, Sehun included. Helped with the writing, too. Better for his concentration. Right now though, it makes it hard to breathe. Too constrictive. Kyungsoo loosens his tie and lights up another fag.

 

He wishes Sehun _was_ here. He could listen to his son describing college life all day long. The acne-speckled roommate. The sweet blonde girl from down the hall. Professor Davis with his under-eye twitch and the dark-skinned boy who sells pot at the lowest price (Kyungsoo hadn’t had the heart to tell Sehun that some things that seem too good to be true, are.)

 

Kyungsoo remembers how worried he had been when Sehun had first turned fifteen. Now, it seemed, they were closer than ever. So maybe he shouldn’t give the boy Scotch. Maybe he should tell Sehun not to drink and drive instead of laughing at his story of Saturday night. But fuck that. They were alright, Sehun and him. Finally, everything seemed to be exactly as it’s supposed to be. So why could Kyungsoo not shake that uneasy feeling off his shoulders? It ate at him.

 

The phone rings. The author puts his cigarette down, curses when this action forces a heap of ash to fall down onto the expensive oaken desk. He puts the receiver to his cheek.

 

‘’Kyungsoo Do speaking.’’

 

‘’Sir – ’’

 

It’s his assistant – Adhara. Her voice sounds off. It’s too high-pitched, too little shaky. Filled with fear. Instantly, panic shoots through his chest. Something isn’t right.

 

‘’Sir, oh – I’m so sorry! Something terrible has happened…’’

 

*

 

END OF PART EIGHT

 

*

 

PART NINE

 

*

 

Do Kyungsoo practically flies through the automatic doors of the hospital corridors. The boy knows where he’s heading; he’s just been there himself. He doesn’t follow the older man. Not yet. Quietly, Jongin sips on his lukewarm soup (the big-titted nurse had brought him chicken flavor, machine-made). As she walks past him, she shoots him a kind smile. If Jongin had to guess, he’d say double Ds.

 

There are four other people sitting here. Two extremely skinny Afro-American dudes, their clothes ragged and their gazes off. Some sort of overdose, a friend? Probably. What he can’t figure out is the woman sitting by the woman, staring intently at the poster for safe sex. She’s about his mother’s age, a good-looking fifty, her clothes expensive but her shoes worn and cheap. Always look at a person’s shoes, his mother had once told him – about the only advice she had ever given him. Jongin had spent his entire life looking down.

 

He spreads his legs wide, places his hands over the end of the arm rests. There’s a blanket draped over his shoulders. For the shock, the paramedic had told him. It seems to float above his white T-shirt, his neatly pressed black trousers. Some of the blood had been splattered on the shirt. He hopes their housekeeper will be able to get that out, or else mama will have his head. This was cashmere, after all.

 

He gazes at his watch. It’s been ten minutes. Long enough, he supposes. Jongin puts the can of soup on the side table next to his chair and starts to walk down the white tunnel of the Intensive Care. 340. 341. 342. And then finally – 343. Sehun Oh. Funny how Sehun had gotten his mother’s last name yet never spoke of her. He’d have asked the boy about that, had he known. Perhaps now he will never get to.

 

Jongin pushes the door open. Instantly, the array of tubes comes to life. Like some twisted sort of organ, with Sehun as the baby Jesus in its center. To his left, a giant machine, the see-through spring moving up and down in line with Sehun’s chest, producing that awful creaking sound that artificial breathing gives. To his right, a heart monitor, steadily beeping away. And by his feet, curled up and small, Kyungsoo Do.

 

The author jumps at the sudden noise. He twists his head around to look at the intruder.

 

‘’They told me you were there when it happened.’’ Kyungsoo says, his voice creaky from tears cried. He sounds tired. Clutched between his palms is Sehun’s hand, small and pale. It doesn’t quite fit with the IV-drip attached to the end of the boy’s fingers.

 

‘’The radio’s been going non-stop about the riots. The television, too.’’ Jongin tells him. He walks over to the older man and places a hand on his shoulder. Kyungsoo blinks up at him. His eyes are large and wide, filled with sadness. A moment, and then a broken sob, turning into near choking on tears. Jongin keeps his hand where it is.

 

‘’My boy…’’ Kyungsoo weeps, head in his hands, ‘’my Sehun…’’

 

Another loud sniff, one of the older man’s hands reaching out for the tissues on the window-sill. Jongin reaches over and hands him one. There’s the sound of Kyungsoo blowing his nose, ugly and cruelly comical, and Jongin lets go of his hand on the other’s shoulder. He drapes his blanket over those narrow shoulders and sits down on the edge of the window-sill.

 

Behind him, Manhattan lights blink back at the hospital. The city stretches itself out, miles and miles of houses and shops and restaurants. Dirty alleyways and clean streets, hidden corners and well-known nooks. Everything has been done. This city is now theirs, and theirs only. It is time for the finale.

 

‘’Kyungsoo…’’ Jongin begins, voice careful. The older man has the dirty tissue still clamped in his hands, shaking his head.

 

‘’I shouldn’t have let you go – to the game, I shouldn’t… if I had been there…’’ he mumbles between sobs of heartbreak.

 

It’s been quite long enough now. Jongin knows he has to be patient, but waiting is ever so annoying. He doesn’t have the grace to put up with so much emotion in one go.

 

‘’Kyungsoo, it’s not your fault.’’ He declares.

 

‘’Yes it is! I should have known that they were going to fight – that there were going to be riots! There always are, with these games… oh, why did I let him go? Why the fuck did it have to be him? Why did he have to fall like _that_?’’

 

‘’Sir. Sehun did not fall.’’

 

Another sniff. Kyungsoo unwraps the snotty tissue, nose going in for another round. He doesn’t look at Jongin as he speaks.

 

‘’I don’t have time for your games, Jongin, please,’’ he rubs his face with his hands. Kyungsoo looks pale, the boy notices, as if he were ill. The complexion makes him look older, too. He doesn’t at all look like a man Jongin would want to be with at this moment. Pathetic. Weak. He hates it. Enough of this already.

 

‘’I pushed Sehun off the stairs. I made him fall.’’ He explains. ‘’It wasn’t your fault.’’

 

Jongin looks at the author. The other man doesn’t move. He sits there, clutching the white tissue between his hands, his eyes directed at his son who might never wake up again. In the background, the awful screeching of the machines keeping Sehun alive carries on, like an awful orchestra of death. Finally, Kyungsoo lifts his head.

 

‘’You are far out of line, Jongin! Do you think that’s fucking funny? Huh? You think this shit is fucking funny?’’ he spits, eyes filled with venom, gesturing towards the half-alive body of Sehun in the bed, chest floating up and down through the tubes in his lungs.

 

‘’It’s not a fucking joke!’’ Jongin objects, ‘’I did this for us!’’

 

Kyungsoo jumps out of chair, the metal and plastic thing falling backwards amongst loud clattering, the tissue falling to the ground. He turns to face Jongin, his eyes shooting bullets at the younger man’s face. His hands are balled up in fists, twitching with anger.

 

‘’Get the fuck out of here before I do something to you, you fucking disgusting little brat!’’ the older man shouts.

 

Jongin looks at Kyungsoo. He can see something in the other’s eyes, mixed in with the fury. It is understanding. Kyungsoo may protest, but he knows. Time, Jongin reminds himself. People need time. People are slow. If he is patient only a little longer, Kyungsoo will come to accept. And then everything will be fine.

 

He shrugs. Slowly, the boy takes one more look at poor Sehun Oh, having become the unfortunate victim in this play of him and Kyungsoo, and walks out of the room, back into the city.

 

*

 

The door to Sehun’s bedroom does not open as it should. Kyungsoo realizes this upon the first push against the white wood. It’s dark in the hallway. The white light of the moon shining through the tiny window behind him does not give Kyungsoo enough light to see anything but shadows. He tries another push – but the door does not give in. Then, Kyungsoo’s eye falls upon something by the bottom of the white wood. There, between the door and the wooden paneling, something grey sticks out. It looks like a piece of paper. Crouching down, Kyungsoo removes it from its grip between floor and wood. Instantly, the door gives way, slowly screeching its way open. Kyungsoo squints at the piece of paper but alas, it’s too dark. It looks like an image of two people – like a photograph. Holding the paper, he steps into Sehun’s room.

 

Tens – no, hundreds of pieces of paper like the one in Kyungsoo’s hand. Scattered. Spilled. Thrown about in every which way. Cluttered together on Sehun’s desk, spread all over the floor, some of them weakly lifting themselves up, trying to catch the cool winter wind that’s flowing in from the windows.

 

Kyungsoo switches on the light and looks at the paper in his hand.

 

It looks like security camera footage, the kind Kyungsoo had once seen when he had to testify against a shoplifting neighbor. The images are black-and-white. Grainy, like an old, shaky film from the fifties. The depiction itself, though, is clear.

 

The fifth of August. Garage of the Ritz hotel. Jongin and him – hand in hand. Jongin and him, their faces close together, Kyungsoo’s arm circled around the boy’s waist.

 

He drops the piece of paper. It calmly floats to the ground, swaying left and right, as if innocent and not at all the current cause of panic in Kyungsoo’s mind. The author lets his knees fall to the floor, scraping at all the photographs currently drawing a circle around him.

 

Another one. Jongin and him in the garden of the D505. Two AM.

 

Kyungsoo barely manages to lift himself upright, his knees still shaking, before vomiting all over the floor.

 

*

 

**20:30 PM, Jongin**

_I told you I was a patient boy, sir, but you must remember to play with me._

**20:56 PM, Jongin**

_Otherwise I might get rather cross with you, sir, oh I would._

**21:18 PM, Jongin**

_And who knows all the sorts of things I might do then?_

 

**22:49 PM, Jongin**

_Let’s play hide and seek_

**23:49 PM, Jongin**

_Ten_

**00:49 AM, Jongin**

_Nine_

**01:49 AM, Jongin**

_Eight_

**02:49 AM, Jongin**

_Seven_

**03:49 AM, Jongin**

_Six_

**04:49 AM, Jongin**

_Five_

 

**05:49 AM, Jongin**

_Four_

**06:49 AM, Jongin**

_Three_

**07:49 AM, Jongin**

_Two.._

**08:49 AM, Jongin**

_One!_

**08:50 AM, Jongin**

_Ready or not, here I come_

*

 

‘’Joonmyun. I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it.’’

 

The editor cranes a look beyond the white paint of his front door. There, standing on his doorstep, is a miserable looking Do Kyungsoo. His skin pale and his eyes cushioned with dark circles, worry in his jumpy movements; the constant scratching at his face, the picking at his nails. Joonmyun feels bad for his lifelong friend, he does. He feels bad for Sehun, too. But this is the first time the other had contacted him ever since their sudden break-up. Joonmyun had sent a card, sure, but he had wondered if a visit wouldn’t have been too… well, intrusive. Now it’s five in the morning, and there’s Do Kyungsoo at his door. Joonmyun blinks the sleep out of his eyes. His voice sounds groggy as he speaks.

 

‘’You’re wha - ? Why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Sehun? If this is about the book I already told you I spoke with – ‘’

 

‘’It’s not about the book. I – can I come in, please?’’

 

Joonmyun sniffs. He’s not about to decline a broken man a drink or two. He pulls the knot on his dressing robe a little tighter, and steps aside. Kyungsoo finds his way to the living room easily, and it’s with a pang in his chest that Joonmyun remembers why.

 

Five minutes later there’s a cup of tea in front of the other man, hot and steaming, and a scolding coffee in front of Joonmyun (he might as well get up early). Kyungsoo hasn’t taken off his coat. Joonmyun had offered, but the author had told him no. The other is avoiding his gaze, nervously rubbing his hands together, his back taut. Joonmyun’s curiosity starts to eat at him.

 

‘’What is it that you have to tell me? Is it… Sehun?’’ Joonmyun begins carefully, tone gentle, ‘’Did his situation worsen?’’

 

Kyungsoo shakes his head at that. A feeling of guilt pools over Joonmyun. He’d thought that his question would make the conversation easier, but it seems to only have worsened the mood. Kyungsoo looks perhaps even more miserable than before, eyes fixed on the brown liquid of his teacup, yet not really looking there at all.

 

‘’Do you know Kim Jongin?’’ he suddenly blurts out. The use of his mother tongue surprises Joonmyun, though it’s not unpleasant.

 

He searches through his mind. The name is not unfamiliar, but he doesn’t quite remember what he remembers it from. Jongin. Kim Jongin…

 

‘’You mean Sehun’s friend? The one with the crazy bleached hair?’’ Joonmyun recalls. The author nods.

 

‘’Um, sure. I don’t think we ever spoke but I know who you mean. Why?’’

 

Finally, Kyungsoo lifts his head. His big, wide eyes are bloodshot, his normally silky black hair greasy and dirty from neglect. Joonmyun doesn’t hold it against him, but it is shocking to see his old friend like this. It frightens him, almost. He looks back at his tea.

 

‘’Jongin and I have been in a relationship for more than a year now. Things... recently… I believe Jongin is going to report me. I believe he is at the police station this very moment. He has evidence – I know he has.’’

 

It’s like being slapped across the face with a bucket of ice. For a moment, Joonmyun feels frozen, his hand stuck halfway through his mouth, cup of tea floating in the air. Very slowly, he puts it down on the table in front of him. When he looks up, he half expects Kyungsoo to be in some sort of manic psychosis, laughing hysterically, but no. Kyungsoo may look wrecked but he is absolutely serious; he stares at Joonmyun with a look that’s almost pleading. Take my side. Help me.

 

‘’K-Kim Jongin? The one you just mentioned?’’ Joonmyun stutters, ‘’The _child_?’’

 

‘’Kim Jongin is not a child.’’ Kyungsoo objects. The editor stares at the other man in utter disbelief. His mouth hangs open as he shakes his head. He almost wonders if he’s still dreaming, but the awful realization that he’s not makes him want to be sick.

 

‘’He is Sehun’s age! He – he is your son’s friend! He fucking _is_ a child!’’

 

‘’Sehun had nothing to do with our relationship. Jongin came to me himself. You have to believe me when I say there was nothing non-consensual about our relationship, Joonmyun! You are the one person in this world who _knows_ who I am – what I am like, you must help me – ’’

 

‘’No!’’ Joonmyun cries, jumping out of his seat. There are too many emotions shooting through his body. Anger, for Kyungsoo’s betrayal of their relationship. Disgust, for realizing just what Kyungsoo’s words mean. Sadness, for everything that their years together now seem to add up to.

 

‘’I don’t know who you are! I thought I knew, but this man… oh, God, Kyungsoo… do you hear yourself? Are you listening to this? You realize this makes you a fucking pedophile? They’re going to lock you up… they’re going to lock you up for a long time… oh Christ, I’m going to be sick – ‘’

 

Kyungsoo slowly stands up. His eyes are full of sadness and remorse, their blackness like the night sea in the thin light of Joonmyun’s living room. In the background Joonmyun can hear cars flying past, their honking and roaring too comical for this situation. This shouldn’t be happening. This sort of thing only happened to _other_ people. Yet there he was.

 

‘’Our relationship was legal. Jongin consented to me.’’ Kyungsoo insists. A loud sound of indignation escapes Joonmyun’s throat.

 

‘’You _abused_ a child, Kyungsoo!’’ he cries, ‘’A child – there was no consent to give!’’

 

Something seems to hit Kyungsoo with those words. His balled up fists are released, the look in his eyes falling more sorrow. At that moment, Joonmyun can see the realization hit him. It breaks him.

 

‘’I can’t believe this is happening,’’ Joonmyun chokes through tears of shock, one hand pressed against his mouth, his voice almost a whisper now, ‘’I can’t believe you – you would be a person like that… I never imagined such a thing.’’

 

Then, even softer:

 

‘’I loved you. I really did.’’

 

There is a harsh sob, high and full of heartbreak, and it takes a moment before Joonmyun realizes it’s not coming from him. Opposite of him sits Kyungsoo, head buried in his hands, tears falling from his eyes like heavy autumn rain; ugly and violent.

 

‘’Me too,’’ he admits, his shaking voice barely holding onto the words through his hurt, completely wrecked, ‘’I loved you. I don’t even know what happened. I loved you and then I went and fucked it up. I fucked up everything. I fucked up us, I fucked up Jongin, and Sehun – oh, _Goddamn_ ,’’

 

Joonmyun closes his eyes in a desperate bid to make everything disappear. He wishes he’d never opened the bloody door. He wishes he’d never met Do Kyungsoo. And yet – yet… he wants nothing more than to hear Kyungsoo claim this to be all some sort of twisted joke.

 

‘’Kyungsoo,’’ he sighs, ‘’answer me honestly. Your… relationship – was it of a… an adult nature?’’

 

He cringes at his own words. But what is there to say in such a situation? What right words would there be?

 

Kyungsoo manages to lift his head out of his lap. He stares past Joonmyun.

 

‘’I never meant to hurt him.’’ The author answers honestly.

 

‘’Oh, _fuck_ – ‘’

 

‘’Joonmyun, listen to me. Please,’’ Kyungsoo pleads. The other man rubs his face with his hands, his headache growing with each second of this conversation. He can’t do this for much longer – can’t even talk about this. What does this even mean? What did all the years they spent together mean? What sort of a person was Kyungsoo truly? Had he never known the other at all?

 

Joonmyun looks at Kyungsoo, looking up at him, and feels nothing but love of the worst kind tugging at his heart. Here is a man he cares more about than anything in this world. Here is a man he’d die for. And here he is: killing Joonmyun with his words.

 

Despite all of this, Joonmyun does not feel anger at Kyungsoo. He feels anger at this situation. If only all of this could go away, and Joonmyun could take Kyungsoo and he’d be his once again. No world outside the two of them.

 

He signs to Kyungsoo to carry on. The relief in the author’s eyes is unlike anything Joonmyun has ever seen before. It cuts.

 

‘’If I know anything at all, I know that Jongin is at the police station right now. I cannot stay here for much longer. You must forget about ever seeing Jongin near me. There was no friend of Sehun’s. Kim Jongin did not exist in my life. There can be no evidence that we ever even met. I am leaving in an hour and I’m not coming back.’’ Joonmyun opens his mouth, tears once more blurring his vision, but Kyungsoo shakes his head.

 

‘’Listen carefully to what I say. Under no circumstance try to contact me. I will not call you, visit you, or communicate with you through any means. You must do the same for me. If there is any part of you that still cares for me at all, then I beg you to do this for me. I promise you this is for your safety. Jongin must never know I came here this evening. He is not who you think he is.’’

 

Joonmyun takes one last look at the other man. Takes is all in. His short height, small posture, almost feminine shoulders and wide, round eyes that crinkle so when he laughs. That full, heart-shaped mouth, a button nose still covered with tears. Thin fingers with chewed-upon nails and cigarette stained fingertips. The energy of Do Kyungsoo. Determined, confident. Sweetness underneath a layer of put-upon bravado. Kyungsoo the divergent. He looks at every inch of Kyungsoo’s body and stores the image in the back of his mind, forever to keep, and prays to the highest heaven he’ll never forget.

 

He looks at the other man and scrapes his throat.

 

‘’Get the hell out of my house.’’

 

*

 

PART TEN

 

*

 

_‘’After his mysterious disappearance four years ago, nothing has been heard of the author Kyungsoo Do. His leave has since become hazed by allegations of the man having had romantic relationships with a minor, though no real evidence has ever surfaced backing this claim. For years, many have believed mister Do to be dead. Now, though, this might change. Just this morning a manuscript was delivered at the writer’s former agency. Sources close to JBLC publishing confirm that there is evidence that this manuscript was written by the man itself, though it does not confirm whether he is still alive. In front of the national library we have our reporter, John. John, does this mean...’’_

‘’Sehun?’’ Joonmyun’s voice comes through like a haze. ‘’Sehun? Are you awake?’’

 

With a start the young man lifts up his head from the pillow. A sharp pain strikes him instantly, starting at the back of his skull, a stinging burn which almost makes him retch. Joonmyun grabs the remote from where it’s lying by the boy’s feet and switches off the reporter’s blabbering. Both of them are aware of what was said, but both men pretend not to have heard. They knew of everything far before any journalist started reporting it as a hot news item.

 

Sehun looks at the familiar face sitting at the end of his bed and smiles through his eyes sticky with uncomfortable bits of sleep.

 

‘’Hey uncle Joonmyun,’’ he greets, ‘’ ‘s the bus already here?’’

 

As he says it, Sehun doubts the answer will be yes. He always wakes up in time for the college bus. It’s as if it were programmed in his mind; his conscious turned into his very own alarm clock. Joonmyun shakes his head. He looks oddly hurt by Sehun’s comment.

 

‘’No, the bus isn’t here. It’s… – it’s Sunday, Sehun.’’ the man explains. Realization hits the boy like a train crashing into a car. He gives the other man a soft ‘oh’ in return. He can feel embarrassment heat up his cheeks. Forgetting things in front of the nurses is one of the things he hates the most, even worse than making mistakes in front of his teachers – but showing his weakness in front of Joonmyun is certainly the worst.

 

‘’It’s okay,’’ Joonmyun reassures him, one hand supporting the boy’s back to help him sit up, rearranging his now-lifeless limbs, ‘’you’re doing really well. Don’t worry about it.’’

 

Sehun laughs bitterly as he’s carried into his electric wheelchair.

 

‘’Yeah,’’ he drawls cynically, ‘’I’m doing _really_ well.’’

 

‘’Don’t feel so sorry for yourself.’’ Joonmyun shoots at him as he makes to push a T-shirt over Sehun’s head. The sternness of the statement reminds Sehun of his father. It’s rough to hear it like that, but it’s miles better than the sympathy and pure pity most people give him. Words like those give him ground. He feels better, even if it’s only by a bit.

 

Before he knows it Sehun is wheeled into the bathroom. He looks at his reflection in the mirror as Joonmyun combs his hair. Sehun makes note to do it over when the other is in the shower. Joonmyun has once again styled it in that awful public-school manner the man was so accustomed to wearing himself. This does not mean, however, that Sehun does not appreciate the consideration that Joonmyun puts in every single brush stroke. There is warmth in sitting here like this, being pampered and taken care of. He wonders idly if his father would have taken care of him like this.

 

‘’What do you want to do today? I don’t have work, so we have plenty time.’’ Joonmyun tells him.

 

Sunday, Sehun reads on the calendar by his bed. Sunday morning.

 

‘’Let’s go to McDonald’s.’’

 

*

 

**2 weeks earlier**

Joonmyun shuffles through the stack of papers currently splayed on his lap, the coffee table and the couch. He’s struggling with the lost draft of chapter four he’d made two weeks ago. He could have sworn had put it right _there_ , but somehow the thing had managed to disappear – it didn’t seem to be anywhere. Tired from the frustration of having a talent for losing things, Joonmyun shoves the papers he’s currently holding back into their pile, snapping off his reading glasses. He runs a hand through his hair. Time for a break.

 

Joonmyun is about to make his way to the kitchen when he hears the noise of Sehun’s wheelchair sliding into the living room, a curious expression on that normally stone-cold face. He smiles at the younger man.

 

‘’Hey, Sehun!’’ Joonmyun perks up, ‘’want to have a cup of tea with me? I was just about to make one.’’

 

The boy shakes his head. His expression is still as concerned as before. He does not say nor do anything – only stares at the older man as if wanting to tell Joonmyun something meaningful but not quite sure of how to go about this task. With a painful pang Joonmyun recognizes it as something he’s inherited from his father. For a writer, Kyungsoo never had a way with words.

 

It’s now, Joonmyun realizes there’s a package in his lap, and he makes to stand up.

 

‘’You ordered something? Here, I’ll open it for you,’’ he says, pointing towards the finely packaged box in Sehun’s lap. He hooks his fingers under the square white ribbon covering the files.

 

‘’Wait!’’ the young boy orders, his voice growing higher. He seems restless the older man notices his eyes darting left and right, eyebrows anxiously furrowed together. Joonmyun is more than a little puzzled.

 

‘’What is it, Sehun?’’ he asks, ‘’you’re acting very strange.’’

 

There’s a moment of hesitation on the boy’s part, before he decides to slide his wheelchair closer to the couch, the package now in reaching distance for Joonmyun. The other looks at him with a questioning look in his eyes, but Sehun only shakes his head. He nods towards the package in his lap, gesturing for Joonmyun to look at it. The older man bends one arm towards the coffee table, plucking up his reading glasses, and reads the black letters scribbled on the front of the package. Joonmyun thinks he can practically feel his blood instantly running cold. He grasps the pack of papers and without a word looks back up at Sehun.

 

‘’Thought you wanted to be sitting down for that,’’ the boy explains sheepishly.

 

**_Anima Aquatica_ **

**_By Kyungsoo Do_ **

****

*

 

‘’What on earth is it, Jongin?’’ The older man asks, agitated. He wants nothing more than to move on and drag his boy towards their Ritz suite, to lie down in the bed and fuck him silly for the rest of the afternoon. They have to hurry up, really, because his reservation had already run overtime and who knows who else might be roaming the streets at this time of day. Imagine if they ran into one of Margaret’s friends! The gossip those women created was truly awful, if a bit impressive – this Craig had to admit.

 

‘’I want to go inside.’’ The boy states simply, ignoring the pleading look that is shot his way and opens the tall glass door to the book shop. Admitting his defeat, Craig once more looks left and right down the busy street. Satisfied with finding no familiar face, the grey-haired man further hides his head into the collar of his coat and follows the boy inside the welcome warmth of the store.

 

Jongin walks fast, each stride taken with the grace of a dancer, so quickly his fifty-year-old legs find it hard to keep up.

 

‘’Gosh, you have such a knack for making me feel my age!’’ Craig jokes as he finally catches up with the younger one, panting ever so slightly. Upon this comment, the boy shoots him a look verging on disgust, making Craig feel rather as though he’d just been punched in the stomach. His attention is easily diverted though when he looked at where his boy’s attention has been drawn to. Jongin stares at a small platform on which rows of one and the same book are displayed. Two other curious buyers have gathered round as well, flipping through the pages and gauging the content of their wallets.

 

‘’I heard about that book,’’ Craig begins, happy to have found some subject of similar interest with the other, ‘’on the radio. Apparently the author disappeared some time ago and nobody has any idea how the manuscript even got to the publishers. All the critics have been slamming it to hell though. It’s supposed to be some odd story about sea creatures?’’

 

Jongin hums unenthusiastically, turning over the book’s cover. It’s almost as if he had not even heard the other. Feeling a bit invisible and not wanting to be deemed useless, Craig swiftly adds:

 

‘’You want me to buy it for you?’’

 

The man readily gets out his wallet, a ten-dollar bill plucked out of the leather like the pearl of an oyster, but the boy shakes his head. Slowly, he grazes over the golden letters of the book with his fingers, as sensually as sliding his hand over the soft skin of his lover’s thighs. Craig finds a light gleaming in his eyes, the corner of his plush lips curving up in amusement shared only with himself.

 

‘’No, I’m good.’’

 

*

 

**_Anima Aquatica_ **

****

_Once upon a time, deep down in the depths of the sea, there lived two anglerfish. These two fish lived a fine and beautiful life there in the darkness of the waters, where they could hide from the other fish and take comfort in the vigor of each other’s presence. Only at night would they light up their lamps and look at each other, look at the world around them, and they would say: oh, how nice life is when there is only you around! How exceptionally happy do I feel when I am with you!_

_And the other fish would shake its fins in delight and answer how glad they were to have found the other, for life would surely be useless without._

_The two fish did not live life for the outside world, but they found purpose in the company of each other. Anglerfish were scarce in this deep part of the sea, and so their destiny seemed that much more magnificent; so unique, so unreal! To have found each other was more of a miracle still, to have loved each other was Life._

_But the male Anglerfish realized that on his own he could not live, for his body did not allow him to roam the seas alone, and so he turned to his love for help. So glad he was, so relieved to have found his friend! For not only would he continue to live, he would be helped by the person he loved the most. Life would be wonderfully fantastic, he imagined, as he told the other of his woes, who instantly sprang to help him._

_And so when the day came the boy said, come, come and save me! His friend quickly agreed. She told him wait not long my friend, for you will soon be relieved of your fears. And then, in less than a moment, she opened his mouth rowed with the sharpest of teeth, and bit the boy in his flesh._

_The boy let out a loud cry into the blue-black sea, trying desperately to shine his light, finding only that his body had already grown too weak. With a shock he realized his body disappearing from under his own self, and gave a ghastly scream! He wept and he moaned as his friend continued her grip on his body, so painful and so dire, and as if in a mantra demanded of her: why must you do this to me? I asked you to help me!_

_And his love tightened her grip on his might, sharp teeth rippling into him, and with a puzzled look asked him: but why do you cry? You wanted this yourself._

_Within seconds the boy wasted away, fading into the female’s deathly embrace as she held on tight. Finally, when the two had successfully merged into becoming one, the female gave one good shake of her fins and started out of the deep end of the waters, shooting up to the surface. And by her side the light of her lover illuminated her path, forever together, their lives eternally intertwined._

*

 

THE END

****


End file.
